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arigatouiris · 4 years

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always you // tsukishima x reader

Author’s Note: I am kinda proud of this one because I relate to the reader and Tsukki here so I just projected half of my personalities into either of them hahaha. Again, before I take requests, which I do, I want to finish clearing the works on my draft first. Currently I have two more one shots before my draft is completely clear and so far I have 3 requests in total. Also, I can totally see Tsukki as the pining type and hopeless romantic, yanno? I hope ya’ll like this~

Word count: 6329 words

Pairing: Tsukishima Kei x Reader (Aged up) (College AU)

Warnings: angst, mentions of alcohol, intoxication, intense pining, slight sexual references, eventual fluff, tired reader

If someone would have told Tsukishima Kei that he would miss every single detail about Karasuno when he’d graduate, he’d have laughed at their face. He wasn’t sentimental, anyone who knew Tsukishima knew that he was one of the most practical people they’d ever meet, but here he was, standing beside a particular desk in his 3-4 classroom, staring at an inscription on it that reminded him of you.

The classroom is empty, and the silence echoes in his head constantly. It takes him only a second to think of how loud it would be if it were filled with people—it feels like just yesterday when this very classroom was bustling with joy and laughter, and here you’d sit, reading a book or trying to take a quick nap or doodling.

Looking anywhere but at him.

He let out a breath before feeling his eyes burn, his fingers ghosting over the inscription on the desk. He thinks of your smile directed at him, your hair blowing in the wind, your laughter at something Yamaguchi said, and the way your eyes would glisten when you called out his name.

Tsukki.

His heart was constricting with a familiar sort of pain, the very pain he felt when he broke up with you six months ago; he remembered how your eyes didn’t widen, how tired you looked, how you pressed your lips together, and just walked away. You must have expected it, the way things had been going in the last year. You had your own club activities, and Kei had his dedication to the volleyball club—yet, despite how understanding the both of you had been earlier, third year did not work out.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi’s voice broke him out of his stupor, before he pulled his hand away from the inscription. “Do you... Do you want to speak to her?”

He did.

Oh, he missed you with every fibre of his being. He wanted to talk to you, he wanted to bury his fingers in your hair, touch your skin, kiss you till you became breathless and he wanted to see the blush settle on your face because of him. He wanted to apologize and scream at how stupid he was for letting you go, and all of this he had realized in six months of not being around you. People often said that first loves don’t last forever, but Kei wanted nothing more than to make things work with you.

No one understood him like you did; you took his snapping with a bulletproof shield and you were headstrong when he was letting himself feel weak. You didn’t punish him for being himself, instead, you embraced him for everything that came with him being who he was—even the bad parts.

“No.”

But, he knew it was too late. He knew you were probably not even in school. Your medical entrance was not far away, and he knew how hard you were working for it. That’s what he loved most about you. On days when he thought he wasn’t paying much attention to you, he’d be one of the last things on your mind because you had a life of your own. He’d wonder if he was being a bad boyfriend by neglecting you for days, not texting you or calling you, but then he’d hear from Yamaguchi that your club activities kept you so busy that it was hard for you to initiate any contact as well.

And when you two did meet after a week of not talking, you’d embrace him with that calming, quite addictive smile and a soft hug before he pushed you away and made fun of you. He’d secretly do it just to see you pout, which he thought was adorable.

And his heart would break when you’d apologize to him instead. Tsukki, I’m sorry I was so busy, his eyes would widen, The club needed me to finish the reports for the anthology we were preparing—

He’d shut you up each time with a firm kiss. The loud beating of his heart meant that he liked you more than he let you know and he only wondered if that would ever bite him in the ass later.

And it did.

It had been seven months since he had last seen you.

Tsukishima knew you were in Tohoku Medical University, and the last time he had seen you was near his own university, meeting with a bunch of girls. He didn’t approach you, quickly hid himself away at an angle that allowed him to look at you, while you couldn’t see him. You didn’t cut your hair, despite how he believed girls after a relationship would make some change; however, you looked exactly like he remembered, no changes.

Did that mean something? He couldn’t deny how he was feeling upon seeing you there, smiling and talking to people he didn’t know, and he ached for you. To see you was to be seduced by you, and he loved how feisty you were with him.

You weren’t shy, you didn’t have a flat personality like most girls he had met. You were a dangerous combination of everything that could ruin him, personified in a form that always took his breath away. Only he could see you flustered, only his touches could make you sigh and gasp and breathless, and he’d have it no other way.

He yearned for a glimpse of you throughout the day, and only at nights he could see you, be with you. But, somehow, you would be gone when he woke up.

It was a week after that did Tsukishima even tell Yamaguchi that he had seen you, to which the blond got news that he perhaps, could have lived without.

“She’s dating someone.”

Tsukishima’s eyes widen at his friend’s words, who only looked a tad bit uncomfortable at how the blond was staring at him.

“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have brought it up—”

“Who is it?”

Yamaguchi gulped, unsure if he even had to say anymore. He knew how his friend felt about you, and throwing at him this sudden bit of information could damage him more than he already was. Clearly, Tsukishima Kei had not stopped yearning for you, despite the breakup, despite the gap, despite the almost one year of not being with you.

“It’s someone from her college... Her senpai, I think?”

But, there was no way Yamaguchi could ever lie to Kei. Tsukishima was grateful for the news, but the way it made him feel was not worth knowing the information. He felt a rock settle in between his lungs and every time he breathed he thought of you, and it hurt all the more than it did before. No matter how many deep breaths he took, Tsukishima could not let go of that rock.

“It’s been long anyway,” He couldn’t even hear his own words, “Good for her.”

Yamaguchi was the one who could see the emotions plastered on his friend’s face, and his heart dropped at the mere sight. Of all the years he had known Tsukishima, he had never seen him so exposed, so vulnerable, and without you, he was just a mess. A walking body of high-functioning anxiety, Tsukishima Kei would rather let his demons devour him than reveal that a girl was making him feel so helpless.

But, that girl was you—strength and beauty personified; there was no wonder that Kei fell so hard for you.

Yamaguchi still remembered that day clearly. The first time you two met, in final year of Junior High. Your relationship with Kei was as special as the one he shared with the blond, and even though you didn’t know him as long, it was just as strong, just as precious, and just as important.

In final year of Junior High, your grades suddenly skyrocketed and you were placed in his class—the teacher often comparing your grades with his own, two of the smartest people in class. Though, your smarts did not just come from you paying attention in class, it came from late-night work and intense studying on weekends.

He had learned later on that you could not afford a cram school, so you would often cram by yourself, into ungodly hours on weekdays, and you’d come to class looking like a zombie and he’d snicker only to have you either ignore him or snap back.

Nevertheless, Kei grew to care for you and Yamaguchi noticed. He’d notice how Kei’s advances at making fun of you died down quite a bit afterward, and if he saw you struggling with something, he’d voluntarily walk over to you and offer to help you—surprising Yamaguchi, and himself in many ways, but what blew his mind was how you’d take his help despite the number of times you’d snapped at him, and you’d thank him, genuinely, making his heart feel full.

You’d started calling him Tsukki by the end of that year, and you’d gotten into Karasuno as well. It was as if the three of you were destined now, and slowly, he realized he developed feelings for you.

And even then, it was you who asked him out. Your face was red, your hands were behind your back, hoping that he’d not see that you were practically shaking, and you were a bit scared that he’d make fun of you. The year had just started, and his practice was going to keep him busy, but you liked him. You liked everything about Tsukishima Kei starting from the teasing, the relentless sarcasm, and the unbridled dedication, which was only masked by his nonchalant demeanor.

But, it surprised you when no teasing ensued. You could never forget the way he looked right then—red faced, hand covering half his jaw, looking away from you like his life was on the line.

“Y-Yeah, I know. You free this weekend?”

Kei thought of you every single day after Yamaguchi told him you were dating someone else. He’d think of you with someone, laughing at their jokes, holding their hand, letting them smell your hair or watch you smile, get the chance to see your eyes glisten toward them.

His thoughts now weren’t even that innocent; on odd days, in the loneliness his apartment brought him, Tsukishima thought of you kissing the boy you were dating, having his hands roam all over you, having some man ravage you instead of him. All Tsukishima could do was wonder what it would be like to take your first, what it would feel like to have his hands roam all over you—his thoughts, while not innocent, reflected how utterly alone he felt.

And when Tsukishima woke up every single morning, his mind would go crawling back to you with guilt over how dirty his thoughts were the previous night.

That evening, after practice, Tsukishima noticed Yamaguchi approach him, waving his hands, flailing them from side to side. Tsukishima rolled his eyes at his friend, who merely smiled at the blond before they walked out of the gym together.

“What’s with you today?”

Yamaguchi said, “She broke up with him.”

Tsukishima could not miss the way his heart skipped a beat at what Yamaguchi said. ‘She’ was automatically ‘you’, and that one vague sentence made so much sense to him that it had him thinking of how much you had him wrapped around your finger, without even knowing it. He turned to his friend, who merely nodded, and continued.

“Apparently, he was too clingy. They’re in med school, and she’s not free at all. Now more so than it was in high school, and her senpai kept nagging at her for not spending enough time with her and she called it off a few days ago.”

Tsukishima did not hide the smirk that sat on his lips.

“She was always the individualistic type.” He commented, his voice low.

“Yeah,” Tadashi nodded, “She needs her space, that (y/n).”

Tsukishima was in a way glad that you considered Yamaguchi so close. Some part of his mind wondered if the reason you told Yamaguchi such intricate details of your life was because you wanted him to know about you. Maybe, you knew Tadashi would ultimately tell Kei about everything, and maybe that was what you wanted.

“Tsukki,” Yamaguchi voiced, “I can’t do this anymore...”

His eyes widened at his friend’s sudden revelation.

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe, (y/n)-chan tells me these things hoping I’d not tell you. Maybe, she wants me to tell you, either way, this is exhausting. You still love her, and she... she’s still trying to wrap her head around whatever it is she’s feeling and I feel like I’m caught in the middle here.”

Tsukishima knew that he could feel this way, but there was no way he could allow himself to lose the one thing that linked him to you. That one thing being Yamaguchi.

“Yama—”

“Tsukki, please.”

Kei turned away before pressing his lips into a thin line. He understands, but he doesn’t like it. Yamaguchi knows that his friend doesn’t appreciate it, but the fact that Tsukishima Kei would never wish for someone’s unhappiness over his selfish desires was what kept their friendship going.

Just as he was about to fall asleep that night, his phone rings. He’d not miss the number anywhere, his eyes were saucers as they were staring at your name on his phone screen, calling him at 1 a.m., almost as if you were used to calling him all these months.

His fingers ghost around the phone screen before deciding to pick the call, his heart rummaging in his chest the entire time.

“(y/n)?”

“Tsukki?”

In that one utterance, Tsukishima knew something was wrong. You weren’t yourself, there was something different, something that showcased that you were not entirely sane at that second. His stomach plummeted to the bottom when he realized what was actually going on.

“Are you... are you drunk?”

You let out a bitter laugh before scoffing, “No, you’re drunk. Loser.”

He was suddenly very, very annoyed. He instantly got up, grabbing his jacket, checking the time once again before getting shocked once again at how careless you were being.

“Where the hell are you? I’m coming to get you—”

“I’m being followed, Tsukki.”

He could puke right now. In all his 20 years of life, he has never felt this scared. He felt the back of his eyelids burn, begging him to let himself cry, but if he had a breakdown it would only delay in getting to you. He needed to get you safe, he needed to ensure that you were within four walls, untouched, unscathed.

“Where are you?”

“Inside a 7 Eleven... I think this is the one near Sendai?”

He knows where you are, but that doesn’t give him any sort of relief.

“Stay there. Do you understand me? Stay right there, and don’t fucking hang up.”

He doesn’t even bother to take his wallet, Tsukishima bolts out of his apartment, locking it, running towards the particular store you were in. He spots you from outside, you were not dressed provocatively, a fact that he was grateful for, and rushed inside to grab you by your wrist. You instantly pulled away, before looking up and realizing it was Tsukishima.

Your eyes widened at his sudden arrival before he noticed how flushed your face was. You were so beautiful, it was breathtaking, but right now, all he could feel was unbridled anger.

“No one’s following you, (y/n). What the fuck is wrong with you? Why did you—”

“I was being paranoid? Man, I really need to sit down—”

“Who left you here?” Tsukishima asked, anger bubbling in his chest.

He pulled you out of the store before leading you to his apartment. Walking with you there would take you ten minutes easily, but this part he didn’t care. He was glad that you were safe, but he was still angry at how careless your actions were.

“My ex left me there. He wanted to talk about something, I think? But I just didn’t want to listen to him,” Kei looked at you from the side, his hand wrapped around your wrist, “I kept chugging one drink after another because I was just...”

He saw the eye bags under your eyes and he saw how dry your lips were. You were clearly dehydrated, and you looked devastatingly tired. Med school wasn’t a walk in the park, but seeing you like this, almost defeated, somehow reminded him of himself.

“...I was just so tired.”

Kei’s eyes did not leave your form. He was hyperaware that the two of you hadn’t reached home yet, and whatever conversation he was going to have with you, he understood that right now wasn’t the best time. You were intoxicated, and by the looks of it, you were probably not going to remember anything of what was happening at the moment.

A few more minutes later, Tsukishima had dragged you into his apartment, and latched the door behind him. He was grateful that he didn’t need to share his space with anyone, which meant he could avoid idiotic questions like ‘who’s the girl?’ or ‘it’s so late in the night, though?’, because right then, all Tsukishima wanted was answers from you, whether you were in a drunken stupor or not. Handing you a large glass of water and glaring at you until you drank it, Kei forced you to sit on the edge of his bed and watched you keenly.

“Apparently senpai wanted to get back together,” You said, surprisingly sounding a lot less drunk.

But, judging from your eyes and the way you were unable to focus on his unmoving form, which was right in front of you, he was certain that the alcohol was still in your system. Kei’s heart went out to how sad you actually looked, your light pink sweater was still neat, your jeans unstained, your hair tied in a messy bun—you weren’t dressed for drinks. It was perhaps either spontaneous or you were pushed to a point where you were so pissed off that drinking seemed the only way out.

“Did he... Did he do anything?”

Tsukishima felt stupid for even attempting to ask you this, but he calmed down when he saw you smile to yourself.

“No, I had pepper spray in my pocket.”

“Had?”

“I think I lost it now.”

Kei wanted to slap himself. You weren’t always like this. You weren’t someone who would resort to something so dangerous and reckless. He couldn’t help but think if this was in some way your method of coping, your method of healing from the breakup—was this your breakup formula, the inevitable course of action that you were supposed to take after he broke your heart?

“I ended up calling my other ex.” You laughed, somewhat bitterly, causing Tsukishima’s stomach to drop.

You were drunk, but you clearly knew who he was and where you were. You may have been a lightweight but somehow, he was impressed with how you were holding your liquor, Kei leaned down in front of you and just watched you, his eyes were surprisingly soft, his fingers dying to touch you—unafraid because he knew you would not remember these moments with him.

“I don’t want to tell you anything I’ll regret in the morning,” You whispered, causing his eyes to widen.

“What does that mean?” He asked, desperately, inching closer to you, but being sure to not make you uncomfortable.

You shook your head before blinking away tears that threatened to come your way. Tsukishima gaped, breathless, at how even intoxicated, you were the single most breathtaking person he had ever laid his eyes on.

“Please sleep.” He said, standing up, and leaving you in his room. He wasn’t going to fit on the couch, but there was no other option.

Even if his bed could fit the both of you, Kei would rather you sleep well and comfortably, than he would. Besides, he was sure that if he slept beside you (or even on the couch), he wouldn’t get to stay asleep for long either way.

When you wake up, you took a few seconds to bolt upwards, check your surroundings and then yourself. Your wallet, keys to your apartment, and your hair tie were on a table beside the bed, where a couple of aspirin and a water bottle was placed too. Getting up too fast was not good for you, your head spun around so sharply that you were inches away from puking.

“Where...?”

A moment later, you got up from the bed—after having taken the medicine and water, left there by god knows who, you inched your way to the living room of this strange person, wanting to thank them for sheltering you for the night. You felt shame hit your veins, you can’t believe you had done something like this—especially alone; and you could only wonder if a creep had sheltered you.

But, the person you saw on the couch was Tsukishima Kei, your ex-boyfriend from high school, struggling to stay asleep on the couch. Your heart broke at the sight of the tall boy, barely fitting into the couch, knowing full well that another step and he’ll wake up.

On odd days, you wondered why he broke up with you. On odd days, you missed him so much that you could cry. On days like today, your heart was barely fill and you were certain that a certain blond was the reason you craved doing reckless things—reckless because some part of you wished with all it had that he would come save you. He stirred awake, almost alerted by how you were just standing there, without making a sound.

When his eyes met yours, he scoffed rudely—as expected—before sitting up, and leaning his head against the headrest.

“Tsukishima—”

“I knew med students were crazy, but wow,” Your eyes widened at his words, “What the fuck, (l/n)?”

You had descended down to your last name with him, and the acknowledgement of it shattered your heart. You felt tears prick your eyes instantly, but you were not going to show any sort of weakness in front of him, not after last night—not after whatever could have happened.

“What happened last night?” You couldn’t bare the sound of your voice, at how groggy and hungover you sounded.

Tsukishima made it evident that he didn’t like it too, but chose to keep his words to himself.

“Nothing dirty happened, just you, throwing yourself into a depressing pit of alcohol drinking and embarrassing yourself.”

You frowned. There was no need for him to be plain mean about it. Sure, he had helped you, but that was it, right?

“Thanks for last night.” You wanted to ignore his words, you wanted to let it go and not fuel him into saying anything more.

“I won’t be surprised if this happens again, you know? Judging from how you’ve turned out—”

“Tsukishima!” You snapped, causing him to wince at his own words.

He didn’t dare look at you. He knew he had crossed the line, he knew he had said something to deliberately hurt you, and that had hurt you, but facing you would break him. What a coward, his mind scolded him, before he heard shuffling coming from where you stood.

“You see, I’m not surprised,” You said, pressing your lips together. “You were always this bitter.”

Tsukishima could hear your voice break. Way to go, he thought, you made her cry again. He gulped before attempting to turn to you, but he noticed that your back was facing him now—making him feel somewhat relieved, but scared at the same time.

I am so glad you’re okay, was what he wanted to say.

“No shit,” was what came out.

He noticed how your shoulders trembled now, as you reached down to grab your shoes. Tsukishima wanted to stand up and stop you, hold you in his embrace and beg for you to stay because if it were him, he’d not even dare give himself another chance—but you, you were forgiving and kind and gentle, all things that drove him up the wall yet made him fall so devastatingly in love with you.

Please don’t go, he wanted to say.

“Get out, (l/n),” was what came out.

You shook your head, “I can’t believe I’m like this because of you.”

Tsukishima felt the wind get knocked out of him, but before he could stop you, before he could find answers or any sort of confirmation at what you said, before he could even think of what was going on, unfortunately for him, he was frozen to where he stood and was forced to watch you leave.

He felt his fingers shake, and he looked down at his hands, which got blurrier and blurrier at each second, as he fought the urge to slap himself. Of course, he thought internally, if he was a mess of a human being, finding unhealthy coping mechanisms by trying to learn about what you were doing, stalking your social media, staring at pictures of you from Yamaguchi’s profile, reading his old chats with you, and everything that would perhaps never let him move on from you; then so were you.

He was the one who broke up with you, after all. If anything, you’d be the one in a much, much more difficult path.

Tsukishima did not go to class that day, and he missed practice. His captain called him multiple times, to which he merely replied saying he had the stomach bug—his captain was a lot like Kageyama, but for some reason, even he understood the importance of an optimum immune system and told Tsukishima he had to take the day off, no issues from that. Yamaguchi inquired about his sudden absence, but he merely said ‘I’m tired’ to him and left it at that.

But, oh boy, he was trying to call you, alright.

Tsukishima perhaps would have called you fifteen times in the last hour, with each of those calls ignored. After the barrage of calls, he left a barrage of messages, each asking you to pick up or call him back, suddenly forgetting the need to act as if he was high and mighty—no, if you were hurting as well, and he was hurting beyond belief, he had to fix it. A dialogue was the only thing that could put things back to normal, and hell be with Tsukishima keeping face. If this meant that he had to bow down and scream an apology, then so be it.

Hey. Pick up.

Hey. Call me.

Please, call me back.

Are you busy? Call me.

I know you’re ignoring me, call me back.

(y/n). Please. Call me.

What if this was an emergency? Call me, (y/n).

Tsukishima looked at his own messages and thought about what was wrong with him. After almost a year and a half of radio silence, here he was, literally begging for you to call him back after he had done something so fucking idiotic. He had a lot more to apologize for, he knew it, but he could only do so if you gave him that chance.

It was around 7 p.m., when you called back.

“(y/n)—”

“I had lab time, Tsukishima. What do you want?”

You were busy. You were perhaps so busy you couldn’t check your phone. Of course, you were studying to become a doctor. You weren’t ignoring him. Somehow, this fact resonated well with his heart. Even your ‘what do you want’ sounded more tired than angry, and he could hear the lag in your voice to confirm the same.

“I need to talk to you—”

“Well, you made it clear that you didn’t want anything to do with me earlier today.”

“Please,” He felt so out of character, but right then he didn’t care, “Let me see you.”

“I...” He heard you sigh deeply, “I can’t today, really. I missed lab work yesterday because... because of that stupid bar night, and now I have to make up for the lost time. I’ll probably be here studying all night.”

“Okay then.”

You were confused when he cut the call, but you assumed he was just tired of trying. You weren’t making an excuse; you stared at your phone, where just a moment ago your ex-boyfriend’s name was flashed up. You lick your lips and realize it’s been four hours since you had a sip of water. You clearly weren’t taking good care of yourself, and if Tsukishima was still with you, he’d reprimand you to no end.

Oh, you missed him.

You missed how he’d scold you for these reckless things you’d do. He knew about your habit of never drinking water, just surviving on licking your lips and sipping water after meals here and there. He hated that bit about you and he made it his personal responsibility to ensure you drank at least a bottle of water whenever he was around.

You missed the way he cared for you, so subtle yet loud—it resonated like his personality and you’d sometimes find yourself caring about your well-being because he cared; and even though the motivation here was incorrect, it brought the desired result regardless.

You missed him so much, it was like suddenly having lost a part of your body. It was as though you had lost an arm or leg but still instinctively reach out to feel your missing limb or try to walk again, placing your entire weight on something that was no longer there.

Swallowing the intense feelings you were experiencing, you buried yourself into the work you had ignored the previous evening and started to work. Medical school was exhausting even without the emotional baggage you managed to carry with you every single day.

What you expected would take you a couple of hours merely extended and you were in the lab till 2 a.m. Your eyelids were heavier than they had ever been before and you felt like your legs were jelly. You didn’t care about the way you looked right then, but you were certain that you looked half-dead. You couldn’t remember the last time you had eaten, and you noticed that the water bottle you had got for yourself earlier that day was still untouched.

Sighing, you grab your things and prepared to trek all the way home. A simple walk would feel like a trek, your feet felt like they were bleeding from the soles. However, the second you stepped out through the hospital exit (the college exit was closed), your footsteps came to a halt.

Tsukishima sat there, by the bench near the parking and your heart skipped a beat. What is he...?

He noticed movement from the side of his view and spotted you there. He instantly stood up, before realizing that you were busy (once again), of how you poured your all into everything that you cared about. This only made him wonder how much you had poured yourself into him.

“What are you doing here?”

You sounded so tired, it was so strange. He had never heard you sound almost defeated—he took one good look at you then; chapped lips, dark circles, disheveled hair; he knew you were dehydrated, hungry, exhausted and you had not once thought of these things.

“I’m hungry.”

You blink and sigh, “Tsukishima, I’ve had a long—”

“Please, come with me.”

You’ve never heard him say please so many times in one day. Your heart is weak for him still, and you follow him to the nearest 7 Eleven. You were wearing your white coat, a purple full sleeved top and the same jeans you were last night. You looked to find him wearing exactly what he was wearing that morning when you saw him, the black full sleeve tee, brown jacket and blue jeans. No matter what he wore, he always managed to look so devastatingly beautiful.

“Eat something.”

You didn’t have the energy to argue with him, you bought a sandwich for yourself and he got some ramen (for some reason, he chose your favorite flavor), and the two of you went out to sit by a park bench, isolated from the world. Your apartment was merely a five-minute walk from where you were, but that didn’t matter right then.

“You obviously still like me.” He said, somehow his voice not condescending or witty.

“Obviously.” You admit, because you were too tired to argue.

You heard him chuckle, but you were busy eating your sandwich, the bottle of water beside you suddenly looked like the most tempting thing in the world. What you missed was how Tsukishima’s hands were trembling as he linked them together in front of him, leaning forward on where he sat.

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” You say, realizing the sandwich did nothing to quench your hunger.

“I know.” He sounded so defeated, before turning to you and handing you the cup ramen.

I knew he was going to do this, you thought, tears pricking your eyes. He bought your favorite flavor because he knew.

Tsukki, you took the cup ramen without hesitation, you can’t do this to me.

“Why,” You stared at the cup ramen, “Why can’t you just tell me what’s on your mind?”

You heard no response from him. You took exactly two sips from the water bottle and dug into the cup ramen. But you stopped eating midway, shaking your head.

“Kei,” You jumped to third year high school again, “Please, I can’t... I will leave if you don’t stop me.”

There was no attempt made. You turned to see him staring at the ground, emotionlessly. You couldn’t decipher what you were feeling, but you certainly couldn’t try to decipher what he was feeling either. His silence left you breathless, all of a sudden you want to cry and scream, you wonder what you did wrong, you wonder what happened—why was he the way he was? Did you make him mistrust you in anyway?

A sob exited your mouth, but your trembling lips capture the rest.

However, Tsukishima Kei’s trembling hands raised to his face and he cried; your eyes widening at his sudden reveal. You quickly place the cup ramen to your side and turn to face him, your sweet boy, the boy you had so willingly given your heart to, crying his heart out, sobs ugly, tears streaking down his gorgeous face. The sight kills you.

“It’s so fucking hard to see you happy,”

You’re confused, but you knew he didn’t mean the words to their exact meaning. There had to be something else. He didn’t want you to be happy? What the fuck?

“And I’m not there...”

Ah.

“You... You don’t need me and that kills me...”

You were quick to kneel down in front of him, your fingers trembling, your knee trembling, your legs quivering, but your heart was strong enough. All you needed right now was your heart.

“I don’t need you,” Your voice was a whisper only he could hear.

Kei rolled his eyes, and you noticed how wet they were from the crying. Your right hand wiped some of the tears from his face before you took a breath.

“But I want you. Always, always you.”

It was Kei’s turn to meet your gaze. You were staring at him, a soft smile on your features.

Why was it that it was always you who would assure him when things were wrong? Why was it that you were always saving him? Either from a misunderstanding, a fight or most often, from himself?

He felt so weak when he was around you. He didn’t know if it was a curse or a blessing.

“No one compares to you. And as bad as that sounds, I couldn’t stop thinking of you, no matter who I’m with. No one compares to your brash, asshole self.”

You let out a giggle and notice how wide his eyes were. You want to kiss him, but you hold back.

“I love you so much, but it’s hard, Kei... It’s hard if you don’t give me bit of an edge, you know?”

Your hand which was on his face, Kei suddenly took it and kissed the back of it, surprising you.

“I love you,” He kisses it again, “I am so in love with you.”

You could only smile. You leaned forward, before pressing your lips to his; Tsukishima could feel how chapped your lips were, but that didn’t stop him from kissing you back fervently. His hand rushed to the side of your face, before pressing you to him, not hard enough that you fall down—he was painfully aware of how tired you were. He pulled away before pecking your lips a few times, kissing below your lower lip and staring at you, lovingly.

“All of this pain could have been avoided if you just accepted what you were feeling, you know that right?”

You were right.

You were always right when it came to him, no one knew him as well as you did. You knew every inch of his soul because it belonged to you, and there was no taking back. And while he was aware that he had to work on some aspects of himself, Kei suddenly felt confident. Looking at you, kneeling in front of him like that, despite how tired you were, despite how shitty of a day it had been, he was sure that with you, he could do anything.

Suddenly, his mind travelled back to your desk in class 3-4, with the inscription that he could not stop touching back on the day of your graduation.

kei + y/n

A simple jumble of words. Enough to break his heart, or make it. He wondered if he’ll ever tell you he created a small forever for the both of you in that classroom.

Well, he thought, forcing you to drink water, Maybe someday.

#tsukishima kei #tsukishima x reader #tsukishima kei x reader #haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #kei #tsukishima #tsukki #tsukki x reader #reader insert #yamaguchi #sandai frogs #kei tsukishima x reader #karasuno #haikyuu tsukishima #tsukishima imagine #tsukishima angst #tsukishima fluff #angst to fluff

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ffangirlingsince2001 · 4 years

Text

End of the Tunnel: VIII

Description: It’s almost been a year since Freed Weasley was lost to the Battle of Hogwarts, and for George Weasley it might as well be an eternity. He is lost in the dark, no color to be found. Until suddenly there might be a light at the end of the tunnel.

Warnings: ANGST, self deprecation, language

A/N: Hey, if you enjoy this series, please be a doll and vote on what you want my next series to be here. Descriptions of the five options available are there and I want to write what the people want to read. Thank you for all your support!

MASTERLIST

***

George though that making it through May 2nd meant he was home free. He thought he was better, he thought that with Hannah by his side he was unstoppable. He had come to terms with being what you might call friends with Draco fucking Malfoy. He was on top of the world, and he was sure nothing could pull him down.

He was so fucking sure, until the anniversary of Fred’s funeral.

He woke up to an empty bed, Hannah had gone to work early, leaving a draft in her place. The one morning when he was sure he needed her more than anything else, she was gone. He shouldn’t blame her; she didn’t know the day. They had both been so sure that the storm had passed after May 2nd.

With a great effort he rolled over and groaned. He told himself he should get up and go to work, but he couldn’t bear it. His body ached and his heart was heavy. He could imagine the funeral, the number of people that patted him on the shoulder and the pity they had all offered him. He hadn’t wanted any of their pity, he had just wanted his brother back. While he hadn’t shed any tears that day, when they lowered him into the ground his whole world had shattered.

The world was ending all over again.

He couldn’t believe he hadn’t talked to Fred’s painting at the event. He knew it wouldn’t be the same, and he had been a bit distracted by other matters at hand, but that was the problem wasn’t it. He was distracted from his own brother, his best friend, and the one person who had really understood him.

When Ron had first attacked him, he had been indignant, sure that being friends with Malfoy was important to overcoming the prejudices that had been formed long before he was born, but now he wasn’t so sure.

What would Fred think? Would he agree or would he be just as angry as Ron had been? The pit in his stomach sunk lower. Not only that but he was dating a girl, who Malfoy would have wanted to kill little over a year ago. Was Ron, right? Had George pinned the execution notice to her door and led her to the guillotine. He might as well pull the rope too, clap with the crowd while her blood stained the sidewalk.

NO! He would never, he wasn’t, he couldn’t. She had been friends with him first, and she had been fine long before he showed up, amazing even. They had lived together, she had helped him, and he had helped her. If Malfoy had wanted to kill her, he would have done it long before George came along. She was safe, he would protect her before he would ever hurt her.

George allowed himself to relax a little through the sadness, but then sorrow turned to rage as an evil thought wriggled its way into his mind.

Had she loved him? Malfoy said he loved Sloane, but had she just been an accident along the way of a different tragic love story? Malfoy had killed for her, would he do that for someone he didn’t love in return? Had they ever drifted around each other while cleaning up late at night, fingers ghosted as they washed and dried the mugs? Had their eyes met and then had she let him kiss her? His mind drifted further and before he could put a stop to it, he could picture them in bed, rolling around beneath sheets while she made noises that he had once felt lucky enough to hold privately within his memory.

She would have told him.

He sat up, slamming his fist into the wall as he stalked towards the bathroom. He had reinstalled the mirror a few weeks ago, but now it seemed like a foolish idea. Fred was staring back at him, so disappointed George threw up in the sink. Wiping his lips, he returned his gaze to the exhausted looking face in the mirror. If he imagined an ear where the was none and put on a big smile it would have been the same picture they used at the funeral.

“What am I doing?” he muttered but no response came. “Fred, what the fuck am I doing?” he screamed but no response came. He yelled again, slamming his hands against the porcelain of the sink, knuckles turning white as he held it for support. With a sudden thrash of his body he punched the mirror. It shattered and his hand was bleeding, not that he could feel any of the wounds. It was so difficult to notice trivial things like pain when anger was so overpowering.

It felt wrong to be so angry, so lonely and numb when everywhere he turned there was love. He was loved by so many, but when only silence mixed with his heavy breathing, he had never felt more alone. Pain grabbed his heart and squeezed until he found himself sitting on the cold floor of the bathroom, drowning in thoughts that would have seemed impossible the night before. The disappointment Fred would feel, the sound of Malfoy and Hannah interlocked in something he couldn’t understand, and the overwhelming loneliness that seemed to be sitting on his chest.

And that’s where he remained until later that evening when Hannah opened the door. By the time she returned he had rehearsed, and rewritten, and scrapped everything he wanted to say. Fear had accused, but love had sacked the idea. Now all he was left with was anger, about both things that he couldn’t control and things that he was not sure had even happened.

“George?” she called, and he stalked out of the bathroom, fists clenched by his side. She hadn’t seen him yet, her head in the fridge as she put away the few groceries she had picked up after work. He tried to collect his thoughts, to decide what to say before she noticed him, but he wasn’t fast enough. “Oh George, you look awful are you alright? Did something happen at work?”

“Did you ever shag Malfoy?” She flinched away as if he had slapped her, eyes wide at the accusation. He can’t believe those were the words that had managed to push through everything he was feeling. A fleeting thought hours ago, and that’s what he greeted her with.

“Excuse me?” He was going to apologize, but that’s not what he ended up saying.

“You heard me. Did you ever shag Draco fucking Malfoy?”

“No, I never shagged Draco. And I never will shag Draco. Where is this coming from?” she approached him but he jerked away. That seemed to hurt her more than the accusation. “Are you okay?”

“No, I’m not fucking okay.”

“Come here, let me help you,” she pleaded, hand outstretched in front of her. He pushed it away, turning to stare at the wall. “George, please.” She rested her hand against his back, words soft and comforting, and rational George wanted to fall into her arms. Rational George was begging to cry and let her lead him to bed. Rational George fought tooth and nail against what happened next, but angry George easily tossed him to the side as he turned around, malice in his eyes.

“Stop trying to be him,” he yelled but she only looked confused.

“Who?”

“Fred.”

“I’m not trying to be,” she replied, and she wasn’t but that didn’t stop him from laughing maliciously as he advanced, fists by his side.

“You’ll never be as good as him.”

“I’m not trying to be,” she screamed in response, tears streaming down her face.

“You’re just someone to make me feel loved, but you can’t even manage that can you?”

“How can you say that?” she cried, vigorously wiping away tears as she tried to remain strong.

“Because it’s true. You’re never here when I need you, for all I know you’re out with Malfoy, wishing you were Sloane while I’m stuck at home waiting for you.” It was all bullshit, he didn’t believe a word that came out of his mouth, but that didn’t stop him from continuing. “And I’m sick of waiting.”

“What are you saying?” she managed through the tears. Rational George screamed one more time, begging him to apologize but the wrong words were already out of his mouth.

“I’m telling you to get out.” The world stopped, and while it had felt like it was ending earlier that morning, it seemed that was only a ruse. She burst into tears, falling to her knees in front of him. Rational George begged him to hold her, but he only watched stoically. He was so angry at the world that he couldn’t bring himself to fight for her, especially when he was the enemy he was trying to defend her from.

“George-.”

“I said, get out,” he growled and with heavy steps she dragged herself away like a kicked puppy. She glanced over her shoulder one more time as she pulled open the door. A final plea rested on her tongue, but she couldn’t bring herself to beg when he was staring at her so coldly. He had never been so cold, always warmth, but it was hard to remember she had ever felt heat from him when he was staring at her like that. So, instead of begging, instead of crying, instead of refusing to leave she took the dreaded step into the hallway.

“You know where to find me.” And then the door clicked shut. He stared at him, heavy breathing the only thing that filled the room as her sobs slowly disappeared from earshot. Then, the room turned into a rampage.

He flipped the table, allowing the remaining groceries to fly across the room and crumble into small heaps against the wall. Rational George and angry George worked as one as they mourned their loss. He flipped chairs, their legs burying into the drywall before falling to the ground with a clatter.

He swiped dishes from the counter and to the floor, not even bothering to wait for the satisfaction of hearing them shatter against the floor. He ripped a cabinet from the wall and hurled it away. He marched towards the bathroom and ripped the shelf from the wall. Products fell to the floor, shattering upon impact. The nails left holes in the wall, but they paled in comparison to the one his fist left as he screamed.

He marched towards the door. He was going to go after her. He was going to pull her into his arms and beg for forgiveness. He was going to, no force on the earth could stop him, except the wave of self-hatred that washed over him the moment he touched the doorknob.

Why would she want him back?

He had thrown her out without an ounce of remorse, accused her of sleeping with a friend without proof, and told her she would never be enough. No one in their right mind would take him back. If he was her he would never want to see him again.

His hand fell from the door and he fell to his bed, eyes squeezed shut. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes as he lay there, half in bed, half out. He was no better than he had been that morning, sad and wishing that the love of his life was laying beside him.

#george weasley #george weasley angst #george weasley fluff #george weasley smut #george weasley fanfiction #george weasley imagine #george weasley fanfic #george weasley imagines #george weasley x reader #george weasley x reader smut #george weasley x reader angst #george weasley x reader fluff #george weasley x reader imagine #george weasley x reader imagines #george weasley x reader fanfiction #george weasley x reader fanfic #end of the tunnel

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why-this-kolaveri-machi · 5 years

Text

i preserved in him what he needed to believe about you.

i wrote yesterday that this episode had a lot riding on it. for the most part, it delivered--mostly in anchoring both dick and slade’s arcs, expanding on the themes introduced in s2, and in firmly establishing jericho as My Favourite Forever And Ever. it was also very flawed, but in (mostly) interesting ways. let’s talk about it!

SPOILERS ahead.

1. jericho has my whole heart and then some. i think it would’ve been very easy to paint him with broad strokes--my fear was they would drag the innocence all the way to the edge of infantilisation, which, good god NO--but while he is enthusiastic and ready to believe the best of both his friends and family, there’s a sharpness to him, a kind of reckless guile, and quite a lot of unresolved and complicated feelings about father figures.

1.25. he is obviously very proud of his father having served in the military--he’s even tangentially aware that he was experimented on, given his nonchalant attribution of his own powers to “drugs” that his father took while serving. (this awareness has to include the fact that his father definitely took a number of lives as a soldier.) even the awful assault that took away his voice and eventually his father from his life tracks with a single, knowable truth. knowing this helped him ground his own identity--the problem comes when he realises that what he’d used to build himself on was itself built on a lie.

there is a tension, then, between his loyalty to these friends who used him but ultimately revealed the truth to him, and his desire to have that cornerstone of his life back. his compromise is to talk to his father, but only with dick’s permission; in it, he would know if his father was finally ready to be completely honest with him, and if there was more to dick’s friendship than merely using jericho to get to his father.

1.3. of course, it doesn’t exactly work that way: in the final fight at the church, there are two men who insist on their truth while pushing him to the side. in it, he sees one of them ruthlessly cut down the other, and he sees the other using his own body and life to protect him. jericho makes his choice in the end.

1.45. dick i think was absolutely right and justified in bringing jericho to a safe place where he can explore and learn to control his powers, even if dick was surprisingly blase about the potential ethical tangles of being able to possess other people’s bodies without them being aware of it. it was honestly a bit disturbing to see that hank was chosen to demonstrate jericho’s powers, given his history and the fact that he describes the experience as a “blackout”. i’m just going to assume that he would’ve come around to it eventually.

given the relative paucity of Big Bads and grand superhero battles, i’m kind of taken with the idea of the titans essentially being a support group for young troubled superheroes who need help and training and ways to ground themselves before heading back to their corners of the world.

1.5. ultimately this episode once again drives home what should be the essential question in a show that revolves around a team of superhero sidekicks: are we destined to be what we were moulded to be? is the point of their existence to perpetuate what their mentors/fathers did? slade and jericho both struggle with this; so do dick and donna in this episode. so do rose, and jason, and rachel, and conner, and kory in the broader context of the series. the answers they find are complicated and at the cost of a great deal of pain, but the process is always interesting.

1.8. obviously jericho isn’t actually dead. i wonder what that initial dreamscape sequence was all about? is it some secret pocket dimension that jericho jumped into at the last minute when slade killed his body? is that where he’s been for the last five years?

2. dick grayson is lost. he is utterly buried under artifice and armour. i mentioned in a previous post (i think the one for 2.07) that he performs quite a bit of emotional labour for the team on top of being their leader in a tactical sense. here, he’s trying to hold it together for the team after a devastating death; he’s spearheading an effort for revenge he thought they all supported. he pulls on batman-goggles, trying to look at what he’s doing from a logical, emotionally-removed perspective, even while burying his bleeding heart as deep as he possibly can. no wonder he’s acting “like a ghost” and “burning at both ends”--it’s a terrible burden to bear.

then the team turns around--once they’ve already gotten the info they needed, mind!--and tells him to cut jericho out of this operation; that it’s wrong and awful to have involved him at all. when he tries to do just that, he sees that he can actually help jericho as a friend and teammate, and at the urging of dawn, comes clean to him. meanwhile garth’s death and donna’s grief is still an unrelenting pressure on the back of his neck, driving him to find deathstroke at any cost--except when that cost is betraying jericho’s trust. ultimately slade nearly murdering donna is what breaks him--and he decides to follow jericho to slade anyway.

at every point he is so desperately trying to do good by everybody that he loses himself in the process. that his reward for this is being beaten up, a truckload of survivor’s guilt, and being abandoned by his closest friends is just so fucking awful. his friends are so used to his artifice and he is so used to absorbing all the blame that they think nothing of both praising him for being someone that saves people and believing he would sacrifice innocent lives for the sake of a mission in the same day.

(but this makes dick/kory so beautiful and refreshing--she has no time for his artifice and he doesn’t have to Be Someone around her. their relationship is defined by being undefined, and in that sense--at least for now--both of them find peace in the other.)

2.5. slade commenting coldly on dick’s fighting skills and the way he uses dick’s feelings for jericho to distract and defeat him makes me think that slade’s been playing this game with dick for far longer than he was aware: slade used both jericho and donna as bait to lure dick to that church, fought him in a cold, critical way undoubtedly reminiscent of a thousand sparring sessions with batman, and drove him utterly to the ground not just to prove a point to the titans and the superhero community at large but to jericho as well: this man is weak, manipulative, and ultimately a poor substitute for slade.

2.75. who knows for how long dick wallowed in his failure, still seeing jericho take the blade that was meant for him, utterly alone? did he go back to the batcave, utterly defeated, and did he listen to bruce call him out on his mistakes? how much do you think he internalised all the terrible things he’d been told he was until he believed it all to be true? until he couldn’t live with himself and spiralled and spiralled until his self-hatred lead to outright self-destruction?

like--no wonder he completely fell apart in the present day when deathstroke showed up again. he’d just started to trust--he’d just started to build a family again. and here it is, a reminder of his biggest failure threatening to have him fail spectacularly once again.

... this boy needs so much therapy. or at least a long nap and a series of hugs.

2.8. (that fight between him and slade tho... goddamn. even my shitty quality stream couldn’t take away from how thrilling it was to watch.)

3. dawn is... well. i know it’s been frustrating to follow dawn this season, as she’s been either non-existent or, uh, flat, but there was something interesting in the way her dynamic with dick moved and shifted in this episode. she thrills to ideals without considering the consequences of actually following those ideals. in the space of a few months, she can implore dick to act like batman, then tell him no, she was wrong to have asked him to do that, then say that she loved him for saving people and then barely days later abandon him for being a reckless sociopath who exploited innocent lives. in the present day, she can support hank in his retirement and rehabilitative process, yet still think it’s perfectly ok to go behind his back and continue being a vigilante. she supported protecting rose in the tower but still piled on dick for going off on his reckless suicide mission to try and save both jason and rose. she endorsed (and once praised) dick taking on troubled young superhero charges, yet turned around and berated him for daring to open up titans tower and “put them in the firing line”.

i mean, for all that she takes the considerate, sensitive line in conversations, it’s almost always in contradiction to a position she’d taken earlier. it’s too consistent to be a coincidence, and i think it’s fascinating.

4. i didn’t realise amazons could be defeated and killed so easily?? who issued the contract to kill jillian in the first place and what was the “important work” they were doing in san francisco in the first place? a mystery within a mystery...

5. if this season were the draft of a story, i would go right in with a red pen and start moving around all the parts to make it flow better; excise entire passages and rewrite a few others. the pacing has been terrible, and this has meant that the younger titans--and the team we came to know and love through the first season--have gotten almost nothing to do, either plot-wise or emotionally. even if kory and gar and rachel become absolutely vital to the story in the last 4-5 episodes, it would still be a fairly significant failure, storytelling-wise.

that’s a pity because this show is packed with a stellar cast, always looks gorgeous, and is filled with genuinely insightful human relationships that are allowed to unfold in ways you just don’t see in other superhero media. just--*vibrates* a little more love and care from the people making and producing the show please!

#titans #titans spoilers #meta #jericho #dick grayson #slade wilson #deathstroke #dawn granger

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distractedhistotech · 5 years

Text

Before MSA + 1: Practice

It took a surprisingly short time to set up the first faux investigation at Lewis’s house.

“We have a limited number of cameras for recording video so we have to determine the best locations for them. Where would you say the activity is the most concentrated?” asked Hiro.

“My room, but that’s probably just because it’s my room,” said Lewis.

Hiro nodded. “A bit iffy, but reasonable. We can leave a camera in there, but I’ll need permission from your parents for it to run overnight.”

“Don’t forget the basement,” suggested Frigg from the kitchen. “Whatever’s down there is unpleasant enough that we put off going down there until Sydney’s around.”

“I knew it,” muttered Sydney.

“Was that where the bodies were prepared?” asked Hiro.

Frigg shrugged. “I’m not sure. We’re not the first people to live here, and one of the former occupants must have cleared everything out.”

“We’ll place one or two cameras in the basement and save the last in case we find something notable during the investigations,” decided Hiro. “You can also set up a few things ahead of time. I like stretching very fine and fragile thread across doorways and laying out a layer of powder on the floor, usually flour. We won’t be doing that this time, as I don’t think Lewis’ parents would appreciate the mess, but can anyone tell me what purpose these serve?”

“Should I answer?” asked Vivi.

“Let’s wait and give the others a chance to see if they can come up with anything,” said Hiro.

“To trip people?” asked Sydney.

“Bit of the opposite,” said Hiro.

“Ghosts would go through the thread, but people would break it?” asked Arthur.

Hiro nodded. “Correct. It will help you figure out if any activity in the room was due to a ghost or a human. Now, what do you think about the flour?”

“Footprints?” suggested Lewis.

Hiro nodded. “Yes. Humans and animals leave footprints. Ghosts don’t. In addition, air currents could shift them letting you know that there is a draft or something similar. You might learn or come up with additional tricks to help you out. There are all sorts of techniques.” Hiro paused to pull out a large sheet of paper, which he unfolded to show a complicated looking circle with various symbols and kanji along it. “This is a protective circle. It’s a good idea to set one up so that if you run into something particularly nasty you can retreat to a safe location to regroup. They aren’t full proof though. It’s best to find some way to escape.”

“Why is it so small?” asked Sydney.

“Because this is the biggest piece of paper I could find,” deadpanned Hiro. “They’re normally a lot larger to fit several people inside.” Ben barked. “And animals as well.”

“Not a lot of investigators use animals,” said Vivi. “But we’ve got Ben.”

“Animals are much more sensitive to spiritual presences than most humans, and dogs are often protective of their family. They’ll do whatever they can to keep you alive,” explained Hiro. He nodded to Lewis. “You’re at least as sensitive, probably more so, but the rest of the children can’t detect anything on their own yet.”

Sydney perked up. “Yet?”

“Ah. My family has a history of spiritual powers that manifest in our teens or early adulthood,” explained Hiro. “I have some sensory abilities myself, and I expect Vivi will someday as well.”

“It’s taking forever though,” muttered Vivi.

“There are also items I suggest you keep on you at all times: Holy water, salt, smudge sticks, pepper spray. That incudes you Sydney. We don’t know how your power works exactly, so I would rather you be safe rather than sorry.”

Sydney nodded. “So, now what?”

“Now, I show you how to set up the cameras.”

The quick demonstration and lecture went a bit over Sydney and Lewis’ head, but Arthur seemed to understand the procedure.

“Now, usually, you would have one member of the group watch the monitors for anything out of the ordinary.” Hiro nodded to Sydney. “No offense meant Sydney, but since you seem to scare away ghosts you would likely be the one on the monitors a good portion of the time.”

“Aw…”

“But not tonight,” continued Hiro. “This is just for practice, and we already know the house and cemetery are haunted. No reason to try and draw ghosts out.”

“Is that something we have to do?” asked Arthur.

“Don’t worry. It’s only small things,” said Hiro. “Asking if anyone is there, saying you mean no harm, simple nonthreatening things to catch their attention.”

“It’s harmless,” added Vivi.

“Usually. Which is why you have to watch what you say,” said Hiro. Couldn’t have her thinking there was no risk. He wanted her to have a long life. “Now, we’ll be moving to the cemetery. Everyone has their religious symbols?” The kids held up necklaces with religious symbols, mostly Christian and Shinto. “Good, always keep them on you during an investigation. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to keep them on hand during daily life as well.”

“Dinner will be ready before too long,” interjected Frigg.

“We won’t be gone for too long,” reassured Hiro.

Five minutes later, they were in the cemetery. Hiro could see the ghosts watching them curiously. “Usually, you wander around a bit, maybe focusing on any graves belonging to known ghosts or having a connection to the investigation.”

Lewis raised a hand. “Um, a lot of them look haunted to me.”

Hiro nodded. “They probably always will. You’ll need to do some research beforehand to determine which gravestones to focus on. I usually start by asking locals, looking up newspaper articles to determine how accurate their accounts are, and going through records to see how possible it is.”

“That’s a lot of homework,” said Sydney.

Hiro had to chuckle a bit at that. “I suppose that’s one way to look at it.” He took out a camera. “Now, we’ll take a few pictures as we walk around since ghosts sometimes show up in photos.”

Arthur perked up. “Oh! That’s a pretty new model!”

Hiro nodded. “I prefer digital cameras. Some insist film works better, but personally I feel the two are equally effective, but digital cameras provide certain advantages. You can take more pictures. This is important because I recommend taking at least three pictures in quick succession. If the same odd phenomena appear in all three pictures with trackable progression, it’s probably a trick of the camera or a light reflection. It it’s only in one, it could be supernatural. You’ll need to examine it further to be sure. If you do use up all the space on a camera, you can go back and delete any that you’re sure have no supernatural evidence. The only downside is that there are no negatives and skeptics might claim you photoshopped something. Not much you can do about that.”

Hiro took a moment to take three quick shots of a grave where a young man’s ghost was floating. “Now, let’s see what we’ve got.”

All three photos were completely normal. Lewis looked between them and the ghost in confusion. “I had some warning,” said the ghost.

Hiro nodded. “Ghosts can prevent photo artifacts if they concentrate.” Hiro wasn’t entirely sure how they did this.

Ben walked over to a seemingly random grave and started pawing at it while the ghost floating about it pet him. Hiro took a few more pictures. “Ah. Looks like I got something this time.” He lowered the camera so the children could see the wisps of smoke in one of the pictures. “It’s not very impressive, but most ghost photos aren’t. If you get a clear figure, then there’s a good chance it’s a fake. Not that there aren’t genuine ghost photos that manage to capture clear figures, but that’s pretty rare since they usually require a powerful ghost or a ghost willingly expending large amounts of energy, which most won’t do for the sake of self-preservation.” The children nodded along. Good.

They spent another few minutes wandering around taking pictures and using a recording device to hopefully record answers to harmless questions such as ‘What is your name?’ or ‘Why are you here?’ “I think that’s enough,” declared Hiro.

Arthur looked relieved (Not that Hiro could blame him. Several of the ghosts had decided to follow him around.). Lewis and Sydney looked happy enough with their activities. Vivi looked annoyed. “That’s it? We hardly did anything!”

Hiro shrugged. “It’s not a real investigation. We’re not trying to figure anything else. You’re just learning the basics, and your friends are younger than you and will have to go to bed at an earlier time.”

“I miss our sleepovers,” muttered Lewis.

“Besides, the Peppers looked like they were almost done cooking, and I’d rather we didn’t keep them waiting,” finished Hiro. The mention of food caught Vivi and Ben’s attention. He knew that would work. The two ate so much it was next to impossible to not distract them with the promise of food.

Thankfully, the Peppers had produced enough food for an extra dozen people…and had made a few servings of less spicy food. Arthur was visibly relieved. “Thank you so much.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. We know not everyone enjoys spicier food so we’ve learned to make less potent portions when we have guests over,” explained Frigg.

“I think I will be taking some of that as well,” said Hiro. He didn’t mind spicy, but this smelled overwhelmingly so.

Ben was trying to beg food from Savina. “No.” She was completely unmoved. Looks like Ben was going to be sneaking food away. Hiro hoped he’d be able to come up with an excuse for the missing food.

#Mr. Yukino #Vivi Yukino #Lewis pepper #arthur kingsman #sydney scoville jr.#Mystery the not-Dog #Belle is sleeping #Mr. and Mrs. Pepper make a brief appearance #msa #au #msa + 1 #grrlpowercomic

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thedistantstorm · 5 years

Text

Phoenix Protocol 14

When the Traveler’s Light was returned to the Guardians after the defeat of the Cabal, it did not manifest itself the same in everyone. Miyu, an Awoken Warlock, finds herself struggling with her abilities, her Light feeling different and not her own. With her Vanguard preoccupied with grief and all eyes turned to the Reef, she finds herself turning to an unlikely source in an attempt to rediscover her connection to the Light and define what it means for her as a Sunsinger.

Previously

The sun casts deep oranges and purples across the sky as it sets. She lays awake in her spot on the floor for a while, watching it descend beneath the horizon. The Traveler always glows so ethereally in the earliest moments of night. She’s always enjoyed watching it.

Tucked into her arm - the other one now, since she's rolled over to face the window - is Zavala's ghost. She's been resting since this afternoon. Tamashii, her Ghost, is alert and perched carefully on her shoulder.

“That position can't be comfortable, Yu-mi,” He says, in his softest voice.

The Commander shuffles paperwork behind her, in the vicinity of his desk. She doubts he knew she was awake, based on the hard-stop of what sounded like furious scribbling. She wonders if he was drafting something, or perhaps revising.

“I'm fine,” She replies, tipping her head up to her Ghost. He nuzzles against her cheek.

A teeny, tiny voice drones from beneath them, sounding sleep rough, “Why you always call her Yumi?” The all-white Ghost squirms a little to turn herself to face Miyu, but stays cuddled in her arms.

Behind them, the sound of pen on paper starts and stops. Miyu can't be sure if she's smiling at Zavala's behavior or his Ghost's cuteness.

“It's a nickname,” Miyu's own ghost replies.

Adelaide is having none of it. “It's the same length as her name is. Isn't a nickname supposed to be shorter? Zavala calls me Addy sometimes.”

“Does he now,” Miyu's voice is teasing, gentle. “They're meant to be affectionate more than they're meant to shorten a name, unless a name is difficult to say or spell.”

“Zavala gave me my name,” She boasts, puffing her cones up in pride.

“Tell me, Addy-” She pauses. “Can I-”

The Commander's Ghost chimes happily, bestowing permission for the polite Sunsinger to use her informal name, “Mmm hmm!”

“The name Tamashii ga-”

“Her nickname is special,” Ghost interrupts. “The characters you use change the meaning. It can mean ‘archery bow’ and I use it when she's wound up.” He swivels around, moving from the Warlock's shoulder. “Or,” He imparts, “It means ‘beautiful friend.’”

“I bet he means it that way the most,” Adelaide chirps sweetly.

Both Guardian and Ghost laugh. “You'd be surprised,” They say, in perfect sync.

Addy erupts into shrieking giggles, floating around the two of them in a carefree way. She spots her Guardian watching them and trills a happy note before launching herself at the space between his shoulder guard and neck in a Ghost’s version of a hug. Despite her youthful nature, those are rare.

“Having fun?”

“This is nice,” She hums back. “We should do this more.”

“What, fall asleep and let me do all the work?” He teases, his voice soft and warm. “I see how it is.”

“You know what I mean,” She pouts, looking at the report he’s working on. It’s nothing important.

He smiles at her and she nudges him again in a surprise bout of affection. “I do. We’ll see.”

The Warlock rises just as the sun sets, a perfect, lean line against the dimly glowing skyline below. Her hair tumbles down, a bit longer than he recalls by comparison to their first meeting. He wonders idly when he started realizing such trivial details. Her gaze is serious, focused on the Traveler. He sees her fingers clench into fists at her sides, wonders what it is she’s feeling right now, in this moment.

She inhales deep and meets her Ghost’s optic. He bobs over her left shoulder in an affirmative. He wonders if they’re talking to themselves, or if perhaps they don’t need words at all. He finds himself wondering a lot about this woman and what lies beneath her gentle, damaged exterior.

As if sensing his thoughts, she yawns - it sounds like a sound that his own Ghost would make, a high pitched yowl as she stretches that’s - dare he say it - endearing. She tips her head over her shoulder, and fixes him with a smile.

“You almost done over there? I was going to see if you had some spare time.”

“To train?”

“Sure,” She allows, before looking up at the Traveller, looming close and then back at him. “Or, just to talk. Something was bothering you.”

“It’s nothing.”

Her silvery gaze narrows on him, and he finds he is back to being surprised at the seriousness, the force of her gaze. “I don’t expect you to carry all my burdens without me shouldering some of yours,” She finally says.

“That is not necessary.”

“Even still.”

Zavala looks down at the contract he’s reviewing. It can wait. “Has Ikora said anything else to you?”

“No,” Miyu says carefully. Her instincts are good, he can tell she’s trying to figure out the rationale behind him asking. “Should she have?”

“No,” Zavala parrots. “Unless you believe something’s happened.”

She shakes her head. “I’ve been in the Crucible like you two decided. I haven’t heard anything about what she’s asked Osiris, or if he truly wants me to visit like she insists he will.” Still shaking her head, she turns her eyes to his. She taps a finger to the side of her face. “What is it?”

“Nothing.” He organizes his things. “Let’s head down to the City and decide from there how we feel.”

Adelaide watches her eyes cloud and turns her optic from the petite Warlock to her Guardian. Tamashii hovers nearby.

“What is it?” Miyu pushes. When he doesn’t answer, she moves into his personal space, slipping between him and his desk. Her eyes are big, wide, and worried, but they smoulder with with pale flame.

“Miyu. Really, it is nothing.”

“I don’t believe you,” She says, her words biting.

Zavala sighs, lets his eyes flutter shut. Damn it all. “Fine.” He leans forward. “Shaxx decided we needed to have a discussion earlier.”

“About?”

“Meddling in affairs that do not concern me. Specifically ones involving Warlocks who have their own Vanguard.”

He watches her connect the dots, sees her nose scrunch as she thinks. “You’re not meddling,” She growls. Her protectiveness is fierce. “You’re helping me.”

“It doesn’t seem that way. It looks to everyone else that I’m turning you against Ikora.”

She steps back, bumping against his desk. “But - how?”

“You continue to seek me out,” He says, finally.

The room is silent for a moment, the two Guardians standing off, the two Ghosts hovering protectively nearby.

“I - but,” Miyu frowns, looking over at Tamashii, who shrugs with his fins. “You’re the only one who listened... Who didn’t just look at me like some puzzle to unravel, or some charity case who needed treatment. You- I,” She gulps. Inhales and exhales. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to make things more difficult on you.”

The Commander shakes his head, lifting her chin up so he can look into her eyes. His hand rises up to cup her cheek. “For all that transpired earlier, I... realized that I do not care.”

“What?” Her eyes widen, immensely so.

He shakes his head: once, twice. Tips his chin down as he does, speaking in that low, serious tone, his breath warm on her lips. “Make my life difficult. I do not care.”

It’s as if her body reacts before her mind fully catches up, one second she’s marvelling at what he’s saying, wondering if he means it the way it sounds, and the next she’s pushing off from the desk and slotting her mouth against his. He yields to her immediately, though he does not move otherwise.

She draws back a few frantic heartbeats later, her breathing labored. “Oh, Traveller above. Please tell me I didn’t read too much into-”

Zavala descends upon her then, and it’s clear who is in charge of this kiss. It is tender but firm, gentle and strong, his arms coming around her not to cage her in but simply because it feels as if he cannot be close enough to her. His tongue seems to flick gently along her lower lip for permission, though it’s not necessary. She tips her head back in invitation, hums something part enchanted, part hungry when he does. He only relents when it’s clear they need to breathe.

“When I said I did not care, I did not mean-”

The Warlock curls the fingers of one hand over the edges of his breastplate, seeking purchase, chest heaving. She wears a warrior’s look of triumph; A smile, strong and true. “I know,” She grins, the pad of her unoccupied thumb swiping at her kiss swollen lower lip. It’s both confident and enticing, like a glimpse of the woman - of the Light - within her that’s trapped inside.

He kisses her again, and she surges up against him, warm and wanting.

It feels like her heart is singing. She feels the flames within her, but for once it doesn’t feel like they're controlling her or burning up from within. She feels like she’s making a move, taking a step in the right direction. Like something is going right. She needs to harness, to come to terms with what’s inside her. Like… maybe this is her path.

And maybe she and her Ghost won’t be walking it alone.

#commander zavala #zavala x oc #oc: miyu #miyu the sweet bean warlock #destiny fanfiction #collection: phoenix protocol #ghosts being cute #now with added romance

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cienie-isengardu · 6 years

Note

Well, the great difference between the Jedi and the clones is that while Jedi indoctrination makes for mitigating circumstances, they are still held personally responsible. Yes, the narrative may skirt around these issues, but it still brings them up - Slick calls the clones slaves, Barriss criticizes Jedi's part in the war, otoh Miraj argues that the Jedi themselves are akin to slaves etc. But the clones are blameless. They did not turn against their buddies and slaughter them with a clear head

2/2 to the audience it also feels different to slaughter a complete stranger or a passing aquaitance as opposed to a friend. In spite of all else, how could fandom not hate Wolffe and co. if they killed Plo for no reason than because a superior ordered it? As for the comparison to Kenobi, as opposed to clones he had very good evidence of Anakin’s crimes. If he had any doubt, it disappeared when Anakin strangled Padme. He might not wanted to be the one to deal with it, but there was no one else.

Firstly, I’m sorry it takes me so long to answer, I had really tiresome two weeks at work and couldn’t reply earlier. Also, I lost my first draft of the answer and needed to rewrite it entirety, so sorry in advance for possible grammatical mistakes and so on.

Secondly… Well, I’m not so sure if Jedi were truly held personally responsible in The Clone Wars animated series - yes, TCW’s narrative brought the issue few times, but never really addressed them in a way that made me feel the Jedi actually were forced to think over what happened. Slick’s accusation was pretty fast dismissed, because he was the traitor and “disappointment” and it was his selfish doing that killed so many clone troopers in the process. Barriss would never be brought to trial at all (and thus never openly criticized Jedi Order), if not for Anakin and Padme, the only people willing to prove Ahsoka’s innocence. But did Jedi Council take any blame for the whole fiasco? Not really. They just washed their hands of both Barriss and Ahsoka. Anakin & Plo were the only one who bothered to say “sorry” to Ahsoka, but rest of Council acted as it was the Will of the Force or her Jedi Trail and were now kind enough to allow her come back. In the end, Ahsoka’s departure was about how she couldn’t trust herself since Council didn’t trust her than how they failed a child in their care. I don’t know what happened to Barriss after trial (and since that was public thing, I doubt Jedi could sent her to their own top secret Ghost Prison), but did any Council member or the girl’s master even get involved afterwards? I don’t remember anything like that. Barriss’ words had merit but are easy dismissed - she is terrorist whose action killed innocent people. If she cared so much how Order changed for worse, why she used violence or did not speak about that in more civil way? How she can criticize Jedi when she alone put bombs and killed people?

And the queen Miraj? She was the “bad one”, so why Jedi (or audience that is supposed to cheer up for Jedi) should care for her claims and screwed up ideology/POV? She enriched on human trafficking, allowed to torture, abuse and dehumanization of captured people - what she really knew about Republic and Jedi corruption, if she alone wasn’t saint? Did she really meant that or did she just messed up with Anakin who was forced to obey her, otherwise dear to him people would be hurt? Or Asajj, who by most of time mercilessly killed people and never questioned Dooku’s evil orders until he betrayed her? See, the problem with accusations coming up from the bad ones is that, those characters do not have any higher moral ground to pass judgment or criticize anyone. I admit I didn’t watch TCW for a long time, so I may missed some more important moments (the padawans left behind, for example). But at the end of day, Jedi are the heroes and rescuers, even when some groups didn’t want to be bring into their military conflict. The villains may have valid points, but it’s easy to dismiss them. TCW did not bring criticism for Jedi from the good guys and for most of time, I feel like all accusation only reinforces Jedi false belief how flawless they were.

I mean that. Yoda, Plo and Shaak Ti may gave clones pep talk, but they would send them on suicidal mission without any remorse or doubt, if that was for the greater good. Saving son of Jabba the Hutt is the best example. Does anyone hold Jedi responsible for letting behind slaves in need, when they actually made a deal with slaver? Not really.

Or did any senator (citizen of Republic) even once asked why Jedi will not pay themselves for clone army whose creation they ordered without the senate’s knowledge, when republic budget was discussed? Did anyone asked how out-of-nowhere, there is a full army ready for a war? Did we even see Yoda to explain any Jedi matters to non-Jedi person (senators?) at least one time? Or being questioned by anyone? Not really.

That said, in some sources (usually Legends) Jedi were forced to rethink their choices or were blamed for things that went wrong. Like senator Ask Aak, who blamed Jedi for another lost battle and even questioned not only their ability, but the desire to defeat Dooku. Still, Jedi weren’t hold responsible nor their mistakes weren’t publicized (“Whispers of names that the Jedi would like to pretend never existed. Sora Bulq. Depa Billaba. Jedi who have fallen to the dark. Who have joined the Separatists, or worse: who have massacred civilians, or even murdered their comrades.” [RotS novel]). They did not apologized for action of Jedi who fell to Dark Side. They did not answer to senate or court the way average citizen would be forced to.

Let me quote fragment from Order 66 novel, between ARC troopers and Jedi master Zey that I think sums up pretty much the different idea of obedience:

“They killed us … They killed us all … Why?” […]

“Orders,” Ordo said. “You never read the GAR’s contingency orders? They’re on the mainframe. I suppose nobody thinks contingency orders will ever be needed.”

Zey leaned panting against the door frame as if he was about to collapse. “But why?”

“Because,” said Maze’s voice from outside the doors, “it’s neither your right nor your position to decide who runs the Republic. Who elected you?” […]

“Maze, what are you going to do now?” Ordo asked.

“I’ve never disobeyed an order,” said the ARC captain. Zey didn’t seem to have the strength to turn and look at his former aide, just shutting his eyes as if he was waiting for the coup de grace. “What am I supposed to do? Pick and choose? That’s the irony. The Jedi thought we were excellent troops because we’re so disciplined and we obey orders, but when we obey all orders - and they’re lawful orders, remember - then we’ve betrayed them. Can’t have it both ways, General.”

[…]

“I really must be going, General,” Ordo said. But he had to know. “Just tell me, is it true that Windu tried to depose the Chancellor?”

Zey raised his head all anguish and agony. “He’s a Sith. Can’t you see? A Sith! He’s taking over the government, he’s occupying the galaxy with his new clones, he’s evil…”

“I said, is it true?”

“Yes! It was our duty as Jedi to stop him.” “What’s a Sith?” Maze asked.[…[

“Like Jedi,” Ordo said “only on the other side. Mandalorians fought for them thousands of years ago, and we got stiffed by them in the end. We got stiffed by the Jedi, too. So, all in all, it’s a moot point for us.”

“Palpatine’s probably the one who had you created” Zey said. He was lucky he was still breathing. Ordo wasn’t sure why Maze hadn’t just slotted him. “Why couldn’t you see what he was?”

“Why couldn’t you sniff him out with your Force powers?” Ordo asked. “And why the shab did you never ask where we came from?”

Jedi Order was politically untouchable organization until now. Jedi matters were only for Jedi. The outsiders didn’t have much to say about that nor could put them on public trail (Ahsoka was a special case). Jedi ruled themselves on their own way. But the moment when Mace Windu and Council members attacked Chancellor - a legally elected leader - this changed everything. We know why they did so, but for average citizen of Republic? This was just coup. No one cared for Sith or Dark Side of the Force. Council tried to take control over Republic and so all Jedi paid the price. It’s unfair and cruel, especially for all children killed in Temple and padawans who suddenly lost their masters and friends and remained alone in the cruel galaxy. It’s unfair for all those Jedi that never had anything to say about Order politics or Yoda/Council decisions. But they paid the price and since then Jedi were blamed for everything bad that happened or forgotten for good. But to that point, Jedi rarely were hold responsible for their crimes or ignorance. And TCW made it quite clear, all bad things happened because of Sith’s doing or Jedi who fell to Dark Side or corrupted politicians & greedy people or mad scientist and so on.

But at the same time, clones weren’t blameless. Jedi blamed clones for “betrayal” when troopers suddenly followed someone’s else (legal!) orders. Some people actually don’t think that much about reasons behind clone action, because they don’t see them as human beings. Clones were breed to war and obedience, so it’s easy to dismiss their feelings or beliefs or inner pain, if they really didn’t like Order 66 but still did as were ordered.

I saw Revenge of the Sith in cinema in 2005, way before knowing that much of clone wars era, but even then I didn’t hate clones. For sure I don’t blame them now. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind seeing someone shooting down Yoda for sure. In a way, Jedi had a chance to save themselves during the three years of war. They could dig and dig all the mystery of clone army yet they never did much about that. They took clones (and their obedience) for granted and that was used against them.

Kenobi had a solid proof of Anakin’s crimes. And you know what he still said to Yoda then? I will not kill Anakin.

Despite everything that Skywalker have done, Obi-Wan didn’t want nor feel to be emotionally ready to kill Anakin. And yet he did what Yoda ordered him; he used pregnant woman to get to Anakin (and revealed himself in the worst moment, really). But the worst part of that? He shouldn’t be sent after Anakin. Skywalker should be stopped faster than later, yes. Should be brought to justice, YES. But Palpatine was the biggest threat then. Yoda shouldn’t be so fucking arrogant to think he alone will kill Darth Sidious, when Mace Windu and three other members of Council get killed in less than, like what? Two minutes? And since Yoda felt death of Jedi in the Force I pretty sure he could put all pieces together how quickly they died. My point is, Skywalker fall to Dark Side was important stuff to deal, but death of Palpatine should be prioritized over everything else. Too sure of themselves [Jedi] are. Even the older, more experienced ones. Yeah, shame Yoda never thought he may be the most arrogant one. And to the end of his life, Yoda had never been held responsible for that arrogance, while hundreds of Jedi paid the ultimate price.

#star wars #jedi #clone troopers #order 66 #my answers #my rant #yoda #anti yoda #more likely #sorry it took so long #to answer

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elonanwrites · 6 years

Text

daffodil

a short story that i wrote for my english comp class a couple years ago. i forgot it existed until i stumbled upon it in a drafted email to my professor. i was about 16 years old and struggling with my own mortality. this story is the result of that.

word count: 2,896

Year 2078

Lucy was screaming again. It happened almost every Thursday at noon. Mostly, I just wished she would shut up.

My children put me in this nursing home seven months ago, and I had yet to get used to the smell of sterile gauze and the sound of lonely yells for help. I stopped being angry at them for it only this morning. My left leg was partially paralyzed, I already had six strokes in the past year, and I was a bitter old woman; this place was a last resort.

My eyes shifted from the drab, gray curtains of my room to the nearly transparent skin at my wrist. All these long years took a toll on my body. I heard the words osteoporosis and blood clots more than I heard my own breathing. The thought of it was no longer frightening. Death no longer sent a chill down my spine. I sat alone in my wheelchair and waited for Death daily. It's been eighty years; He still hasn't shown up.

I lived each day alone; alone in this room and alone in my mind. My children were all gone; buried in their lives of executive importance, I held second place (or third) in their lives. My parents died forty years ago. First my father and then my mother. My memory of them lapsed a lot. There is only a glimpse who they were; a smile and a hug are all that I have left.

Everything was gray. The cataract in my left eye developed six months ago, and yet, life had always been gray. I accepted the blindness with open arms. Everything was also wrinkly. My skin, my sheets, and even time was wrinkly. Time began becoming wrinkly almost twenty years ago. It started with lost hours, but it soon turned into lost weeks and months. Without time, I fell into a void of numb ignorance. Without time, I began to disappear.

The doctors said I had borderline Alzheimer's and this was the cause of the lost time. I told them they were wrong, so they slipped a few extra doses of Zoloft into my daily medication.

"Miss Ashley? It's time for your afternoon table tennis game."

One of the nurses at the resting home, Bridget, was standing in the doorway with her hands clasped behind her back. No doubt to hide the new bruises her husband had given her. A male nurse, who tended to be a little too touchy, stood behind her with a beastly look in his eyes. How sad that a man got a kick out of harming little, old ladies in a nursing home. He was definitely in the wrong profession, but I don’t think he minded.

I kept my eyes lowered and nodded mutely. I had found that it was easier to just comply with the staff. It made them treat us a little more humanely.

Bridget rolled me out of the room and into the fluorescent lit hallway. The air was heavy with hushed secrets and burned cornbread from today's lunch. Empty faces stared at me through the paned glass of their rooms. Whether they were ghosts or humans, I didn't know. They all wept the same.

We passed Lucy's room, where the screams had turned to sick, guttural moans of despair. I didn't have the energy to feel any remorse. I tried to remember the last time I had felt it, but my thoughts turned to gray mush.

Bridget's voice was a slight whisper behind me. "We set up your table with all your favorite snacks in case you get hungry. Candace wanted to play, but I told her that today was your turn. Of course she nearly—"

A twig-like grip was wrapped around my equally thin forearm. Lucy's wild brown eyes met mine as she clutched at me frantically. Her distraught voice reached me before the orderlies ripped her off of me. "You can change this. Go. Be free."

A tearing sensation built in my forearm that she had touched and seared an agonizingly, slow path to my chest and legs. I could feel my body changing and contorting in the wheelchair. I had never felt pain like this. I was being ripped apart and pulled back together all in the same instance. I lost all sense of reality as Lucy's words played over in my head like a broken record: You can change this. Be free. Be free.

The pain stopped. I fell into the darkness.

***

80 years earlier, 1998

The migraine bouncing around in my head held little competition to the ache in my bones. As I reached my hand up to block the blinding light in my eyes, my elbow popped in protest. I huffed impatiently as feeling painstakingly returned to my limbs. My right hand fell to my side and smacked against soft soil while I pushed myself up to a sitting position.

I should have noticed that the hair against my shoulders no longer held its gray sheen, or that my lungs felt whole for the first time in years. Instead, my cataract-less eyes fixated on the woman towering over me.

"Lucy?"

My voice sounded light and airy as she smiled down at me. Her hair was combed back into a neat ponytail and her hands were no longer gnarled into permanent claws. The wild look in her eyes disappeared and was replaced with a tender one.

"I'm surprised you made it," she chuckled. "Most people end up getting lost. You look good, Ashley. Sixteen looks well on you."

I scowled up at her and struggled to my feet. I scraped my hands against the soil under my knees and winced. At least that meant I wasn't dead. Maybe.

"Where are the orderlies?" I stiffened under her scrutiny. "Where am I?"

Lucy clasped her hands together and gestured to the frost-tipped mountains to our left. "You can call it what you like: Purgatory, The Before, Heaven. All you need to know is that the year is 1998 and you do not exist."

A hysterical laugh bubbled up from my throat. I wrapped my arms around my chest as I was on the verge of a panic attack. A tear fell from my eye and a daffodil bloomed in the soil where the water landed. My laughter trickled to an end; hiccups replaced it. I shook my head as the daffodil grew before my eyes. "You're insane."

Lucy threw back her head and sighed impatiently. "Why? Because this world says so? Oh sweetheart, open your eyes!"

She held out a hand and beckoned to me. "Come. There's much you need to see."

Lucy took me to an Ash tree nearby and told me to feel the bark under my fingertips. I held my hand out and felt a magnetic-like pull toward the rough bark. The tree thrummed with energy; it was unlike anything I had experienced before. "What does it mean?" I breathed.

"You were born from the Ash tree. This is your beginning and your end. You were made from the branches and the leaves. You will die here, and your skin and bones will return to their rightful home when, someday, they will be reborn in another form." Lucy walked around the base of the thick roots and stopped to stare at me with her omniscient eyes.

She went on to explain to me that I had traveled through the dimensions to one where I had not yet been born. I laughed in her face at first, but it didn't phase her. She just stared at me the entire time.

"I don't blame you for not believing me," Lucy breathed. "The first time I traveled, I did it alone; no one was here to greet me. It can be frightening, but you did not belong in that dirty place. To live your entire life just to end up dying with strangers, is the saddest life. I am giving you a chance to redo it all."

I squinted up at the green leaves of the Ash tree; they swayed in a wind that I could not feel. "Why me?"

Lucy gazed into the daffodil fields that tumbled over each other in the breeze. "Sometimes you meet someone and their soul shines through their eyes. You can't explain it; you just know they are destined for greater things than this one life we are given." She turned to me with a desperate look in her eyes. "Can you imagine how beautiful the world would be if everyone got a do-over? Some people are lucky enough to see the ugly soon and try to fix it. Some die blinded by their own selfish desires."

Lucy grabbed onto my shoulders and grinned at me. "I'm giving you a chance to leave this ugly world and enter another. I'm not one for non-consensual time travel, so you need to tell me right now if you can't handle it."

I thought about the splitting pain every single one of my atoms felt the first time we time traveled and the horrible headache that was still present. But I also thought about the mental pain the nursing home had brought to me. I would rather be split into a million different pieces than feel that kind of loneliness ever again.

"I'm ready."

***

March, 1998

My mother was standing in front of me, except her hair was light brown and her sweater had six different colors on it. She twirled her pink gum around her finger and lip-synced to a TLC song that was playing on her Walkman.

I could hear my grandmother shuffling around in the other room yelling at my mom to turn the music down. "Charlie," she called out. "Turn that racket down! You'll go deaf, girl."

My mom twirled around and rolled her eyes at the wall in annoyance, but she pulled out the headphones eventually. She had yet to see me standing in the corner by the mirror. I took a step forward, and the floorboards of the trailer home creaked in protest. "Mom."

She froze in place as my breathing grew erratic. "Mom, it's me. Ashley."

Her black-rimmed eyes locked on mine as her Walkman slipped from her fingers. Her lips formed into a comical 'O' as she looked me over, head to toe. "Who are you?"

I placed my hands up in a look of surrender as she backed away from me toward the door. If I knew anything about time travel at all, the less people who knew I was here, the better. I looked at her desperately. "Please hear me out. I know you don't believe me right now, but I'm your daughter. In 2078, I live in a nursing home. My father, your boyfriend, is named Jim. My grandmother's name is Betty and my grandfather is George. I was born on December 27, 1998 by you. You are my mother and I am from the future."

My mother's lips lifted into a smile right before she fainted to the floor.

"Crap," I muttered.

My grandma's footsteps sounded too close for comfort now. "Jim will be here soon, won't he?"

Jim. My father. I glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall; it read March 23, 1998—one week before my parent's wedding date. I kneeled next to my unconscious mother and looked at her face for the first time in nearly forty years. Her skin was bright and wrinkle free, and her lips were painted with bright red lipstick. Mom, I miss you.

"Charlie? Are you alright?"

In a moment of desperation, I sucked in a breath and imitated my mom's voice the best I possibly could: "I'll be out in a minute, Mom."

A moment of strained silence, and then: "Okay."

30 minutes later

"Wait, so how bald am I?"

My mother and father sat in front of me on my mom's bed. My dad hadn't stopped asking questions since he got here twenty minutes ago. I couldn't stop staring at him. He looked exactly like the pictures he had shown me when I was younger—tan, feathered hair, and a stout physique.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "That's really what you're worried about?"

My mother smacked him on the chest and turned to me with a sheepish grin. "I'm sorry about him." She looked at my jeans and Nike's. "Where exactly did you come from? I'm sorry, but I just can't believe you're our daughter. How is it possible?"

"If I knew, I would tell you—believe me."

My father leaned his elbows on his knees and narrowed his eyes at me. "I think the real question is why you're here. There's obviously a reason."

I smiled at the memory of Lucy. Would I ever see her again? I ran a hand through my hair and tucked my legs under me. "There was a woman who I lived with in the nursing home. I thought she was a complete nut, but I'm here, so I guess she was pretty sane after all. Anyway, she told me that she's giving me a second chance. She said I didn't belong in that nursing home, and I have the opportunity to change my future by being here."

My mom wrung her hands together nervously. "How do we help?"

I shrugged my shoulders and gazed around the room. "I know it sounds crazy, but it wasn't really explained to me either."

A short laugh came from my father. "It's obvious, isn't it? You have to change our future, which in turn will change yours. It's simple."

My mom looked at him with light shining in her eyes before she turned to me. "When do we start?"

March 30, 1998, Wedding Day

"Charlie, you're the light of my life."

"No, no, no; you're saying it all wrong! Say it like this: 'Charlie, you shine so bright that the moon is jealous.'"

"Oh, okay."

"Aaaaand ACTION!"

"Charlie, you shine so bright that the moon is jealous."

My mom's white slip clung to her sweaty body. "Ashley, can we please take a break? This church is stuffy."

I glanced up from my clipboard and sighed. "The wedding is in thirty minutes, Mom. We need all the practice we can get."

My dad loosened his tie from around his neck and threw me a look of disbelief. "Remind me again how this was different from the first wedding we had?"

I scowled at my clipboard instead of looking at him as I grumbled, "In your first wedding, mom wore a green dress and you were married in front of a judge. This one simple change in location and wardrobe might change everything."

My mom touched my arm lightly and moved her veil behind her head. "I know he seems a little rough around the edges," she began. "But your father is just scared. He doesn’t believe in...paranormal things. Of course, you know that."

I forced a smile at her and placed my clipboard on a table behind me. "Thanks, Mom. I appreciate you two doing this for me. I'm just scared. I don't even know if any of this will work in the long run."

Without warning, my mom placed a kiss on my temple and pulled me into a hug, but not before I saw the tears shining in her eyes. "I love you."

A weight tugged at my feet and I pulled away from my mom to gaze down at the church floors. Stems sprouted from the wooden boards. Daffodils twisted up my legs and reached up to my torso as the familiar tearing sensation spread through my body.

My mom tore at the daffodils in anguish. "What's happening," she screamed.

I pushed her hands away carefully and shared a weighted look between her and my father. "It's okay." The stems wrapped around my wrists and broke contact between mine and my mother's fingers. "Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. Thank you so much."

The pain stopped. I fell into the darkness.

***

I don't know how long I have been traveling. Months, years, millennia. All I know is that the world is very quiet. The wind feels like the moment before the world exhales—even and powerful. I am constantly on the verge of rebirth, only for it to be drawn back at the last second. I am scared for this new life, but the excitement washes away the fear.

I am no longer alone. The few days I had with my parents keep me company while I wait. I play every detail like a movie in my head until I can almost hear my mother's laugh and my father's words of wisdom.

And just like that, my waiting is over. There is a flash of blinding white light before suddenly, I am filled with life. My life before as a human gave me no preparation for this life. I had no sight. I had no memories. Yet somehow, I was aware of the two gravestones on either side of me. I was aware of one etched with my mother's name, and the other etched with my father's name. I was aware of the moon glowing above me with a shining soul that belonged to someone I once knew.

As the moon loomed overhead, a yellow daffodil between two gravestones swayed happily in the calm breeze, for she was finally at peace.

#writeblr #writing #short story #creative writing #my writing;#sorry mobile users if the read more doesn't work immediately

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sj4iy · 6 years

Text

Translation: “Ayanashi” Chapter 09 (Spoilers!!)

So, I was going to summarize this, but since I was translating it anyway for a friend, here’s the script for this month’s chapter. The translation is more of a rough draft because I would usually clean it up as I’m typesetting. Sorry, I cannot provide raws. Spoilers after the jump!

Page 01:

Holo: “Rico…”

Holo: “How long do you plan to keep up this job? You could go back home right now and start over…”

Rico: “Yeah, yeah, I’m tired of hearing you say that, Holo”

I’m Ricardo Lancorse

And I’m an Ayanashi

Page 02 and 03:

[Chapter 9: Accursed Town}

Rico: “Whoa”

Rico: “So this is Cavern 48, Lidea”

Rico: “…speaking of whoa”

Rico: “If you look closely, the town is suspended in the middle!”

Rico: “Eeeh…”

Rico: “I can’t really see anything below but it’d be a problem if I fell…”

Page 04:

Rico: “Ah, Look Holo! That street lamp is electric!”

Holo: “…electric?”

Rico: “It’s amazing, isn’t it? Such a civilized town is rare!”

Rico: “…hmm? However”

Rico: “Where is the ‘cocoon’ in this town?”

Rico: “Whoa, whoa, look! Look!” (The girls are gorgeous toooooo!)

Holo: “…Rico”

Holo: “Stop looking at women’s asses and let’s get going”

Page 05:

Rico: “Hey…that wasn’t my intention!”

(clears throat)

Rico: “I’m interested in a girl’s ENTIRE body!” (not just her butt!)

Holo: “…no, that’s not what I meant”

Rico: “After all, I think you should judge everything by looking at the whole!”

Rico: “Besides, I don’t want to be lumped in with the breast fundamentalists of the world! I believe our ideologies conflict!”

Holo: “…”

Holo: When did he start lusting after women? (Little Rico: I’m going, too!)

Rico: “Anyway, it’s pretty rare for you to come into town”

Rico: “Let’s look around some more and see what else there is!”

Holo: “…hmph, I came to do a ‘job’”

Page 06:

Holo: “Once we’ve fulfilled the request, we’re leaving…this kind of town”

-Patrol Report-

We first paid a visit to the capital building in order to meet our client

Lady: “Thank you very much for coming, Mr. Holo and Mr. Ricardo” (t/n: using -sama here)

Lady: “I shall take you to the Chairman”

Page 07:

Rico: “…what?”

Rico: “Sentinels?”

Page 08:

Rico: “This is another extravagant design…”

Lady: “This is the Chairman’s room…Chairman Norman is waiting inside”

Lady: “Well, then…because I was told that he wanted this to be between the three of you, I will wait here”

Rico: “Thank you”

Page 09:

[t/n: Norman grins]

Rico: “This person is our client…”

Rico: “…huh?”

Rico: “…if this is supposed to be between the three of us, who is that…” [t/n: Rico sees the one-eyed man next to the window]

Page 10:

Rico: “Umm-“

Holo: “Just the three of us…but someone else is here, right?”

Rico: “!”

Norman: “…”

[t/n: a man wearing a cloak and a skull mask steps out from behind a pillar]

Rico: “!?”

Page 11:

Norman: “Oh, Mr. Naga, you were here, as well?” [t/n: Norman is referring to everyone as -dono here]

Norman: My apologies, Mr. Holo, he’s something of a bodyguard to me…

Rico: “…What?”

Norman: “Naga”

Norman: “So as to not worry them, could you please step outside briefly?”

[t/n: Naga does so, but Rico is still confused]

Rico: “No…”

Rico: “Umm…”

Page 12:

Rico: “-?”

Rico: “-he’s gone…?” [t/n: the one-eyed man is no longer there]

Rico: “Holo, over next to the window there was-“

[t/n: Norman puts his finger up to his mouth and says ‘shhh’]

Rico: “…no, it was nothing…”

Page 13:

Norman: “-now then, I have a favor to ask of you two”

Norman: “Let me explain about the ‘execution’”

Norman: “The prisoner is named Vilmar Neal”

Norman: “He’s been imprisoned for the crime of planning an insurrection with the aim of pulling off a coup d'état”

Holo: “A coup d'état…?”

Rico: “…in other words, he tried to kill you and steal sovereignty of the town?”

Norman: “That’s right”

Page 14:

Rico: “But if there was a coup d'état, then shouldn’t there be others who were sympathetic to the cause?”

Norman: “Yes…that’s why we are arranging a public execution”

Rico: “Huh!?”

Norman: “With the death of their leader”

Norman: “We will destroy their will”

Page 15:

Rico: “…now wait a minute”

Rico: “There’s already concern among the sympathizers that if you do such a thing”

Rico: “It will only make matters worse”

Rico: “Besides, that would be just the reason they need to mount an insurrection-“

Norman: “The execution is set for the next morning, and will take place in the plaza in front of the capitol building”

Norman: “Let’s continue this at the place you two were shown”

The chairman cut off his overbearing story and and we were hastened outside of our room

Page 16:

[No dialogue, but the one-eyed man passes Rico, who looks rather shocked, and his heart is pounding]

Page 17:

For some reason, I thought…

That I shouldn’t make eye contact with that

Holo: “…Rico, what’s wrong? Let’s go”

Rico: “…right!”

Page 18:

When we left the room, it seemed like reality came back

What he…a daydream?

…a one-eyed man with with white hair…

Rico: “Hey”

Rico: “…Holo”

Rico: “Do you…believe in ghosts?”

Holo: “? …what are you talking about?” [t/n: it seems that Holo did not see the one-eyed man]

Rico: “…nothing”

Rico: “I guess…I’m a little tired from the journey”

-!? [t/n: there’s a loud noise and everything is shaking]

Page 19:

Man: “Chairman!”

Norman: “What happened!?”

Man: “Vilmar’s comrades are breaking him out-“

Rico: “There!”

Holo: “After them, Rico!”

Rico: “Right!”

Page 20:

Rico: “Wait!”

Rico: “Wah!?” [t/n: a hooded archer shoots at Rico but he narrowly avoids it]

Archer: “Tch…”

Page 21:

Rico: “Huh…” [t/n: the escapees use a zip line of sorts to escape down below]

Rico: “A wire…?”

Rico: “They had strange tools, but could they use it to go all the way down?”

Holo: “Shit…”

Holo: “They took Vilmar and ran…this is becoming a pain in the ass”

Page 22:

Rico: “Then why don’t we give up and go sightseeing around town?”

Holo: “This isn’t a joke!”

Holo: “Until we’ve confirmed his death, we can’t leave this town! Just being somewhere with so many people will make me sick!!”

…besides that, I wonder what’s down there?

…it’s gloomy…

And the cloud cover makes it hard to see…

[t/n: Rico is tapping his fingers on the rail then notices something]

Rico: “!”

Holo: “Hey, Rico?”

Page 23:

Rico: “An elevator for carrying coal?”

Rico: “Can this go down?”

Worker: “Huh? Yeah, but right now…”

Holo: “…?”

Rico: “Please take us down!”

Rico: “We’re following Vilmar on the Chairman’s orders!”

Page 24 and 25:

[t/n: they arrive in what looks like an abandoned town]

Holo: “What? This…isn’t a coal mine?”

Rico: “No…it’s…a ‘town’”

Holo: “…but compared to the one ‘above’, it’s far more desolate”

Rico: “Holo, look at that…”

Rico: “The bottom of the town that we were in…”

Page 26:

[t/n: when they look up, there’s a large cocoon-like thing attached to the bottom of the town above...it’s bright with light]

Holo: “That’s…the Theda cocoon?”

Rico: “That’s right…if the ogres that roam the surface are death incarnate”

Rico: “Then the Theda is life incarnate”

Page 27:

Rico: “Because the light from that cocoon can nurture many living things”

Rico: “All underground towns are built by borrowing the Theda’s burrow”

Holo: “That reminds me, when you saw that as a kid it scared the shit out of you…” (it was hard to get you to sleep…)

Rico: “It was a long time ago, so it’s okay!”

Rico: “He always has a good memory for those kind of things”

Rico: “In other words, what I’m trying to say is”

Rico: “If that’s here, then what’s going on!?”

Holo: “?”

Page 28:

Rico: “Look at that sign”

Holo: “…urban planning?”

Rico: “Yes”

Rico: “Originally, the place where that cocoon is hanging from was the ceiling of this hole”

Rico: “So then what’s that “town above” that they built on top of the ceiling?”

Page 29:

Holo: “-so, Cavern 48 is…”

Rico: “Yeah…it looks like they’ve separated the original “town below” from the newly built ‘town above’”

-the report we received earlier mentioned nothing about the “town below”

Are they keeping it a secret from outsiders…?

-I see…if that’s the case, this place is…

Rico: “Hm?”

Holo: “H-hey, Rico?”

[t/n: Rico takes off into the crowd]

Holo: “Wai-“

Holo: “Kuh…”

Holo: “People”…

Holo: “Damn him, what is he thinking…? I can’t take much more of this”

Page 30:

[t/n: a girl is walking down the street when Rico suddenly appears next to her, smiling]

Rico: “Hi”

Page 31:

Rico: “I need directions”

Girl: “…strangers don’t come here”

Rico: “I was wondering where Mr. Vilmar’s house was?”

Rico: “The bow you used earlier”

Rico: “You’re pretty good at it, aren’t you?”

[t/n: she suddenly slashes at him and he narrowly avoids it by falling backwards into a barrel]

Rico: “Whoa!!”

Page 32:

Rico: “Ah dah!”

Girl: “Huh…”

[t/n: Rico has taken away her knife]

Rico: “Owww…you shouldn’t try to slash me so suddenly, you know…”

Girl: “Kuh…you’re Ayanashi…”

Girl: “My face was supposed to be hidden…”

Girl: “…how did you know it was me?”

Rico: “Heh…about that”

Page 33:

Rico: “It’s your butt”

Girl: “Hah?”

Rico: “Heh heh, don’t underestimate my eye for women”

Rico: “As if I would ever misjudge such a fine ass as yours!”

Rico: “Ah, of course breasts are important, too, but in your case-“

Rico: “…no, let’s change the subject…”

[t/n: she punches him in the face]

Page 34:

[no dialogue as a man walks through a greenhouse carrying hedge clippers, which he violently plunges into a table. He sits down on one side. Rico is sitting on the other side, tied up to a chair. His cloak, weapons, and bandanna have been confiscated from him.]

Page 35:

Vilmar: “…you”

Vilmar: “You’re one of the brothers who came to kill me, right…?”

Rico: “I’m the little brother, Ricardo Lancorse.”

Rico: “We finally meet.”

Rico: “Mr. Vilmar.”

Page 36:

Vilmar: “…mind if we talk?”

Rico: “Not at all”

Rico: “That’s why I came here”

Vilmar: “You saw the town above, right?”

Vilmar: “That was the urban planning project…”

Vilmar: “That was once proposed by us…Norman and me”

Rico: “By us?”

Page 37:

[t/n: this is a flashback sequence]

Vilmar: “In those days, I worked as the town representative”

Vilmar: “-however, there was another reason for such a large-scale project”

Vilmar: “That’s because Norman was a ‘person from outside of this world’”

Rico: “!”

Vilmar: “Occasionally, flotsom from that world…or things called “strange relics” appear on the surface”

Vilmar: “There are rare times when a person will be mixed in with the relics”

Vilmar: “They are called ‘foreigners’”

Page 38:

Vilmar: “The way they are treated by towns range from persecution to deification”

Vilmar: “Norman possessed plentiful knowledge that we did not…it seems that he previously taught at a place called a ‘university’”

Vilmar: “That’s why everyone in the town thought of him as reliable”

Vilmar: “At that time, the town’s resources were running low”

Vilmar: “There was coal and a little bit of oil, but the burrow itself was small and the power of the cocoon was weak”

Vilmar: “That’s why this town had meagre harvests and poor trade”

Vilmar: “So I cooperated with Norman, and with the aim of expanding the land and supplementing the cocoon’s light, we built a power plant on the upper stratum of the town”

Page 39:

Vilmar: “We got the raw materials from the garbage of any strange relics that showed up…”

Vilmar: “Even Norman wasn’t very interested at first…but when they saw artificial light for the first time, our supporters increased-“

Vilmar: “And gradually became unified”

Vilmar: “There were numerous steps to go through”

Vilmar: “As 20 years passed, the development continued little by little”

Vilmar: “And the number of people who arrived from other towns wanting to learn engineering increased”

Vilmar: “And the town become gorgeous and affluent”

Vilmar: “-but after five years, a problem arose”

Page 40:

Vilmar: “A part of the air conditioning system brought about something abnormal”

Vilmar: “When we burned coal to generate power, the sulphur oxide produced accumulated on the lower stratum”

Vilmar: “I was afraid that if nothing changed, it would have some kind of effect on the people living in the town below”

Vilmar: “So I immediately requested to Norman and the people of the town above that we turn off the power, but…”

Townsperson: “Turn off the power!?”

Townspeople: “If we stop the factories right now, then the shipments to neighboring towns won’t make it on time!”

Townspeople: “And what about light? The town below will probably be fine since they have the cocoon, but…”

Townspeople: “And you haven’t reported anything about the pollution yet, have you?”

Vilmar: “It’s true that the effects wouldn’t happen right away, but…after something happens, then…”

Vilmar: “The people who live in the town above didn’t easily accept it since their lives benefited so much from electricity”

Page 41:

[t/n: we are back in the present, now]

Rico: “Because of their vested rights, huh…”

Vilmar: “Two years have passed since then, and Norman’s people above unilaterally stopped relations, and dozens of people below have already become sick”

Rico: “…I understand the situation”

Rico: “However, isn’t a coup d’état really dangerous?”

Rico: “Please, could you give me a little time?”

Rico: “I have an idea-“

[t/n: suddenly the glass above them starts to break and there’s a loud crashing sound]

Rico: “!”

Page 42:

[t/n: Holo drops down from above and looks absolutely maniacal]

Holo: “…I’ve found you, Vilmar…”

Rico: “!”

Rico: “Holo!?”

Page 43:

Rico: “This is bad! You, untie me!!”

Girl: “What!?”

Girl: “You don’t understand your situati-“

Rico: “HURRY!!”

Rico: “Or do you wanna see the old man get killed!?”

Holo: “…you’re a nuisance”

Holo: “I’ll end you right here, right now”

Guy: “U…”

[t/n: men with pipes run after Holo]

Guy: “Get him!”

Page 44:

Guy: “!”

[t/n: Holo deftly avoids the attack, jumps around the room and lands in front of Vilmar]

Vilmar: “-u…”

Page 45:

[t/n: Rico parries Holo’s attack]

Vilmar: “!?”

Holo: “Wha…”

Holo: “…?”

Holo: “What are you doing…”

Holo: “Rico…”

Rico: “Holo! You can’t kill this person!!”

Rico: “If town will be in trouble if you do!”

Page 46:

Holo: “…like I care, our job is to kill him, isn’t it?”

Rico: “Uh…”

[t/n: the men from before are trying to attack Holo again, but Rico throws the hedge clippers into the wall beside them]

Rico: “Don’t try to harm my brother”

Rico: “Do you wanna die?”

Page 47:

Guy: “Uh…”

[t/n: Holo starts taking off his cape and sword]

Holo: “I’ve always told you, haven’t I?”

Holo: “That nothing good comes out of supporting the townspeople”

Holo: “…I don’t want to hurt you”

Holo: “-but if you get in my way”

Holo: “Then I’ll force my way through with everything I have”

Page 48 and 49:

[No dialogue, just Holo and Rico fighting]

Page 50:

Rico: “You’re making a mistake!”

Rico: “The old Holo wasn’t like this!!”

Holo: “Tch…”

Rico: “!?”

Holo: “…what of it…”

Page 51:

[t/n: Holo grabs Rico by his shirt]

Holo: “It’s better to leave the ‘townspeople’ alone!”

Holo: “Or did you forget who killed our dad!?”

Page 52:

Rico: “…you’re wrong”

Rico: “That was an accident…”

Holo: “An accident!? You weren’t there when it happened, so you wouldn’t understand!!”

[t/n: one panel flashback to a young holo bent over a body with arrows all around]

Holo: “That’s why you can get close to these people without a second thought!”

Holo: “Because…you’re different from me!!”

[t/n: Rico gets really upset and punches Holo into a table, breaking it]

Page 53:

Holo: “Kuh…”

Rico: “Open your damn eyes already!”

Rico: “You…idiot brother!!”

Holo: “!”

Page 54:

[t/n: Rico has a sad expression and tears in his eyes]

Rico: “One day…we’ll rejoin society, together”

Rico: “That’s why I’m by your side…”

Rico: “Because I don’t want…to lose my ‘family’ again”

Page 55:

[t/n: Holo looks surprised and ashamed as everyone stares in silence]

Holo: “…Rico…”

Holo: “…”

Page 56:

[t/n: chairman’s office]

Naga: “…it seems that those brothers went down to the town below”

Naga: “…heh heh, do they intend to keep up this farce?”

Naga: “This got interesting, didn’t it…?”

Page 57:

-Two Days Later

Page 58:

[No dialogue, but Holo and Rico are following the girl archer from before up the stairs...they overlook the town]

Page 59:

[t/n: flashback to Vilmar talking to Rico]

Vilmar: “Ricardo…when I look at you, I’m reminded of the old him”

Vilmar: “Norman was also more nonjudgmental and wiser than others, once”

Vilmar: “But he changed after that…”

Vilmar: “Sometimes I saw him facing a wall and talking to no one”

[t/n: Rico realizes something shocking]

Rico: “-!”

Rico: “…that’s just like-“

[t/n: back in the present, Rico is repeating what Vilmar said...]

Rico: “‘It was as if he were possessed by something…’”

Rico: “…was he?”

Page 60:

Girl: “…Rico, are you sure that this plan you came up with will really work with just the two of you?”

Rico: “The true nature of this town’s problem isn’t vested rights or pollution…”

Rico: “It’s stopping this civil war”

Rico: “If a large group attacks, there is sure to be a lot of blood spilt”

Rico: “I want to prevent that, no matter what it takes”

Rico: “It’ll be difficult, but surely they’ll be able to understand”

Rico: “Whether it’s called above or below, it’s the same town…and they’re all human”

Rico: “…well, I’m just repeating what you told me, Holo…”

Holo: “…?”

Holo: “…I did? I said something like that?”

Page 61:

Rico: “Eeh!? You forgot!?”

Holo: “?”

Rico: “I’m talking about-”

Rico: “The day I became your ‘little brother’…”

Holo: “Ahh…you…remember that?”

Page 62:

[t/n: flashback to young Holo guiding and holding a young Rico’s hand. Rico is crying and wearing modern clothes]

Holo: “…hey”

Holo: “Don’t worry about what the other people said”

Holo: “One day they’ll understand”

Holo: “My dad and I don’t care ‘where you come from’!”

Holo: “Because we’re all human”

Page 63:

[t/n: back in the present]

Rico: “Okay”

Rico: “Shall we begin, then?”

Page 64:

[t/n: a shot of the one-eyed man in Norman’s office]

”The operation begins!”

That’s it for this month. See you next month!

#ayanashi #chapter 9 #translation #spoilers #manga #yukihiro kajimoto

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shrimpkardashian · 7 years

Text

Here is the entire, unedited draft of a novella I wrote (20,776 words long)

What

a story of the unspeakable cloaked in the genre of absurdity

“Please don't throw the toaster in the toilet. My wallet is in one of the slots.“

I was lying. My wallet was in the refrigerator.

“I know your wallet isn't in one of the slots,“ Melinda replied. “I saw it in the deli drawer when I was making you that bologna sandwich earlier.“

“I want a divorce,“ I said.

We screamed at each other for several hours. I eventually broke down and told her I would pay for her Rottweiler's plastic surgery.

She threw the toaster in the toilet anyway.

•••

Things were pretty rough between us but, come fall, I took a job at the local community college. I was Professor of Egg Science. I loved my students and they loved me.

“Are you cheating on me with one of your egg groupies?“ Melinda would often ask me.

“They are foolish eggheads but we are getting close. Gotta love them eggies.“

“The Egg Queen?“

“Bingo.“

Penny, the Rott, groaned in the corner. She had had her nose job yesterday and was due to get the bandages off soon. Melinda and I crossed our fingers that she looked alright beneath them.

“Would you like a bologna?“

“Bingo again.“ I smiled coyly. “And make one for ole Penny while you're at it. She's earned it because the nose job was a real painful procedure. I hope they didn’t botch it.“

My star student was Alecia, the pride and joy of the eggies. She understood the nuances of a delicate field like Egg Science. And she was a beauty. The previous head of E.S. was a man named Truman Sky. He was something of a myth. He seduced and married Alecia when she was a freshman then promptly retired at the end of the school year, as legend would have it. I couldn't get her to tell me heads or tails about my predecessor, who was currently on some kind of vacation or independent research study. But, by golly, did she know her eggs.

During my first summer off from the professor gig, I got really into ice hockey. I bought as many VHS tapes of old hockey games as I could afford. It was an obsession.

I was two minutes into the finale of the 1985 Stanley Cup Finals when my wife told she was preggers. The Edmonton Oilers had scored eight damn goals and I had just scored my first.

“What?“ I said with a smirk.

“You heard me, you rat bastard.“

My sperm had penetrated her egg and this gave me a renewed interest and true sense of purpose as far as my job was concerned. If I could put my seed into a human egg and make a baby, then I could find The Egg Queen, and I would force her by any means necessary to divulge the secrets of the universe.

My body felt like a star, burning out of control in another dimension. I laced up my rollerblades and picked up my stick. I had taken to blading around town recently, practicing my moves against a fake opponent in the streets.

“I'm headed to the office,“ I told my wife.

“But it's the Fourth of July,“ Melinda replied.

“This can't wait.“

I texted Alecia the emoji of the chicken hatching out of the egg. She replied back, “what.“ It was hard to text on rollerblades with a hockey stick in one of my hands. I noticed I had texted her the emoji of a bat in flight by mistake.

“This can't wait,“ I wrote. “We need to find her.“

The purpose of the Egg Science department, on paper, was to find safer ways to process and deliver chicken eggs to the consumer.

But as legend goes, some time in the late 90s, Professor Truman Sky discovered what would be the true purpose of E.S. faculty and students alike: locating The Egg Queen and possibly torturing her if necessary. For it is she who holds the key to the universe: immortality.

As soon as I started the job, I opened the first of two manila folders Truman had left for me in his old office. It said, “URGENT“ on it, written in bizarrely feminine bubble letters. The contents of this folder would change my life forever.

But what we already know about The Egg Queen isn’t important. It doesn’t matter. It's all just a means to an end, or something else entirely. It’s always been like that.

“What's gotten into you?“

“Alecia, thank you for coming. I know it's the Fourth of July. God bless America.“

“God bless America,“ she said.

“Listen,“ I said, packing a huge wad of chewing tobacco. “It's high time I meet this hubby of yours, Truman Sky. What do you say?“

“Oh Julio, you pugnacious, silly man. Even if I wanted you to meet him, don't you realize?“

I knew what she was about to say.

“He doesn't want to meet you. I'm sorry.“

We sat in silence for what felt like eternity.

“Plus,“ she said with a hushed reservation about her. “He's in Germany playing ice hockey professionally.“

I felt sick and stiff with shock. “What,“ I said, not so much as a question but as an expression of my general blankness.

“Look, Truman didn't find her, OK? But he got close. Close enough that he found something that made looking for her feel dumb! Feel… sickening. Are you happy now? He's not coming back! He led me on and then he left me. I was just a college freshman…“

Alecia slumped over in a hefty sob. I didn't know what to do. I thought they were still a couple. If I consoled her she might think I was trying to seduce her. And I had a bun in the oven waiting back home, so that was out of the question.

“I'm sorry your elderly husband hit the road to pursue a career in the ranks of the D.E.L.” I said.

“You know about Deutsche Eishockey Liga?“ Alecia peeked up.

“Yea,“ I said, rather slyly. “I got the bug too.“

“The hockey bug?“

“Bingo.“

As I walked her to her car, I told her about my sudden and rapid fascination with all things hockey. The D.E.L. was the premier league for the sport in Germany and I had purchased many tapes online from the dark web of its pinnacle games. The one thing I couldn't wrap my head around was how a man near eighty years old could cut it over there. Alecia couldn't either.

In fact, she told me, there was no record of a Truman Sky on any roster. But every month, without fail, he would send ephemera and collectibles that had to have been from a player in the league.

“I mean, a used jock strap signed by the entire Fischtown Pinguins?“ She said.

“Sounds legit,“ I told her, smiling at her German pronunciation of the word “penguin.” Although the Pinguins were technically a second tier squad, members of the D.E.L. 2, I let it slide. “Look, you should go home and get some rest. It's been a long day.“

And just then she leaned over and kissed me. Her lips tasted like fresh buttermilk. I couldn't pry them away.

We made love in her car, a 1999 Toyota Camry. And then she drove off without exchanging any words.

I was an adulterer now, but something felt right. I looked to the sky and said, “You have big plans for me, Julio George McManus, don't you Queen? Don't you?“ It felt like The Egg Queen was in the sky for some reason. Little did I know just how wrong I was about that factoid.

I bladed home and watched fireworks with my wife. When the finale finished exploding light on our TV screen, my wife asked me how it went at the office.

“I had sex with one of the eggies,“ I replied.

We were officially divorced by the end of the month and, come August, I was a mess, ravenously consuming booze and watching hockey tapes over fifteen hours a day, sleeping at my office, barely showering.

I reached inside my desk and pulled out the second manila folder, this one had “SUPER URGENT“ written on it, but not in silly bubble letters. Underneath in smaller text there was a note: “don't open till you're ready.“

This was a cryptic message but nonetheless one I adhered to. I truly hadn't felt ready until that moment. And so I pulled out the only piece of paper inside it. Two names were printed on it. I had no idea what they meant or who they were. I spent days searching them on the internet: no hits.

Summer break would be over soon and Alecia and the rest of the eggies would be ready to rejoin the quest. I had to get my act together.

I decided the absolute best way to do this would be to adopt a dog. The worst thing that could happen in this scenario is that I'd ruin both the dog's life as well as my own. But at least we'd have each other.

And wouldn't you know the first smiling dog face I saw at the shelter belonged to Penny the Rott.

The nose job didn't take. It had been botched.

“Well,“ I said to Pen, not mincing any words. “I can see why my Melinda gave you up. You're hideous.“ It made me ill to look at her, but we had a rapport from previously living with each other and I knew she was housebroken.

I took her home to the apartment I was renting just a few blocks from my office at the college. “First things first, sweet girl. We'll need to order you a mask.“

It took me well over a week to find the perfect mask for a dog who had a horribly botched nose job available for purchase on the internet. When it arrived, school was back in session. “Penny, you're the ghost from Scream now,“ I said, locking the door behind me.

When I called roll and got to Alecia, I heard nary a whisper. She was absent, absent on the first day of the semester, a rotten sign.

I spent the rest of the session in a depressed stupor, thinking about Alecia. Was she skipping out on her entire junior year or just my class? Was she now just another lost name like the two inside the folder?

An eager new student named Joe came up to my desk after class. “What gives, teach?“

“Please, call me Señor Julio.“

“You know why we're all here right?“ He said. I sneered at this. “We gotta find her, man.“

“What do you know about it?“

“More than you think,“ he said. “I'm here because of my sister. Her name is Joan Jane Marbles.“

“Let's go to my office,“ I told him.

There, I pulled out the folder with names and dramatically slid it across the desk towards Joe.

“Who gave you this?“ he asked.

“Does the name Professor Truman Sky ring a bell?“

“No,“ he said. “Should it?“

“He taught in this position before me. He 'retired' under mysterious circumstances and left me this note.“

“My sister Joan was a student here. Her transcripts have been erased, just like everything else. There’s no…” Joe started to quietly cry.

“Oh, my sweet boy,” I told him, grabbing his arm in a fatherly way. “No tears today. Please, tell me. How do you know she was a student here, that she took this class?”

“Because,” Joe muttered between tearful gasps. “She texted me this right before it happened.”

He showed me his phone. It was picture of a girl and Truman Sky standing in front of the Egg Science building. They were each holding a dozen eggs, smiling. “It took me for-fucking-ever to find this school based only on that picture,” he said. “You have no idea. That was over three years ago. And this place is real far away from Florida.“

“Can I take a picture of this picture?”

“Umm… Why don’t I just text it to you?”

“Bingo. That’ll work.” I recited my number. We were more deeply connected now that Joe had my info in his phone. I had just met the boy but, truthfully, he felt like a son.

I texted the photo to Alecia. Maybe it was a long shot, but I had to try. “I’m gonna try to get some answers, son,” I told him. Alecia texted back almost immediately, in all caps, “STOP THIS.” I saw the bubble pop up which indicated she was still typing. I waited. “RIGHT. NOW.”

“Joe,” I said. “Office hours are over. I need to make a house call.”

It was unethical at best to frantically knock on the door of a student at her off-campus apartment, but this was a serious situation and the stakes were high. “Alecia!” I called out. “Open up, it’s me, Julio. Please.”

I waited a minute before a note was passed underneath the door. “I can't talk about anything of this,“ it read. “Contact Special Agent Gregor at this number…“

I walked away from the apartment, deeply worried about this mess she'd clearly gotten herself into, and if it had any connection to the Marbles girl or The Egg Queen or any of it. My guess is that it did.

Slinging a fresh lump of chewing tobacco into my gums, I dialed the number of this Gregor fellow.

“Special Agent Jay Gregor?“ a voice answer.

“Hi, is this Special Agent Gregor,“ I said.

“Yes,“ he said coldly. “Who is this?“

“One of my former students gave me your info. I think she might be in trouble. I was—“

“Sir, excuse me. I can't understand a word you're saying.“ I spit out the wad of chew. It stunk to waste a brand new wad but this was way too important.

“I'm sorry,“ I said. “I was doing chewing tobacco…“

“Umm,“ Gregor said. “Okay. Who are you and what do you want?“

“My name is Julio McManus and I'm a professor at Raritan Valley Community College, Egg Science department. My former student is Alecia Wilcox. I believe she may be in some trouble. She gave me your number.“

There was a lengthy pause before Gregor told me to meet him at the dining hall at nine in the evening. He then abruptly hung up.

“Why is the F.B.I. involved?“ I wondered aloud as I walked back to campus. “Hmm.“

I needed to find Joe Marbles and learn more about his sister.

I slipped my boy Jamal at the registrar a twenty and he gave me Joe's schedule. He was in an experimental film class. “Bingo. I can sneak him out of there easy.“ Jamal shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “None of my business, chief.“

Just as I'd expected, the film class was watching Stan Brakhage's classic “Window Water Baby Moving.“ I snuck down every isle whispering, “Joe? Joey Marbles“ as a woman gave birth on the movie screen. The movie had no sound so everybody heard me. I hoped he liked to be called Joey.

“Señor Julio?“ A voice called from across the room. It was Joe and he was very embarrassed.

The first thing he told me when we got outside was that he hated to be called Joey.

“Won't happen again, son,“ I assured him. “Do you like chili dogs?“

“Hell yeah.“

“Good. I know a great place.“

I almost didn't know where to start when we got to the chili dog spot.

“Does the name Clarkson Maxx mean anything to you?“ I asked.

“No,“ Joe said in between massive bites of hot chili dog.

“Yeah. I didn't think so. Shot in the dark.“ I took an equally huge bite of my dog. There was some real, playful father-son rivalry stuff brewing here. Who could eat the most chili dogs? But maybe Joe wasn't playing the game yet. “Well,“ I continued, “it's not too much of an intrusion, can you tell me everything about your sis, Joan?“

“Of course,“ he said, slowly and methodically dabbing chili dog residue off of his face. “Joan Jane was something of a wild—“

“Wait,“ I interrupted. “Do you really call her Joan Jane all the time?“

“Yes. We're from Kissimmee, Florida,“ he continued with a smile which indicated that such a name was common in them neck of the woods. “So Joan Jane was a real wildcard. She drove our parents mad. She's the oldest of six kids. I'm the second born. Summer after her senior year, she disappears.” He paused for a chili dog break and I did the same. “Around Christmas time she starts randomly texting me. It was always one-off stuff, like a picture of some trees or chickens or one-liners, like 'Joe I've never been happier.' Things like that. I tried to find out where she was or what she was doing but it was like she was oblivious and her line of communication with me only traveled one way.

“I tried to tell my parents. Believe me, I did. But they had long since given up on her. Joan Jane was real smart, smarter than the lot of us. Graduated high school a year early. She alienated a lot of the family. My mother was especially cold. 'Good riddance,' she'd say whenever I tried to show her we'd been in touch. This went on and on until the incident in May.“

“What was the 'incident in May'?“ I asked. We had both finished our first dogs. “Please, Joe, continue.“

“She came home. Boom. Just like that, out of the blue. But she was a zombie, in a constant stupor. She wouldn't talk. Or, rather, she couldn't. And then one night, about a month later, they came for her.“

“Who, Joe? Who came for your sister Joan Jane in the night?“

“Fuck if I know,“ he said. “But if I didn't no better, they looked like the Feds. All dressed in black except for a small emblem on the shoulders of their uniforms. Looked like a target, a bullseye.“

Oh my god. The F.B.I.

I couldn't blow Joe's mind by letting him know I was in contact with Special Agent Gregor. Not before I knew more about what was going on. “Joe,“ I said tenderly, poker face on. “That's a horrible story. I'm so sorry.“

“Well, I'm here now. Only took nearly three years of research. I mean, New Jersey? What led her here?“

“I don't know, Joe, but listen,“ I said in a real fatherly voice. “I'm gonna do everything in my power to help you find out.“

“Thanks, Señor Julio.“

“Don't mention it,“ I replied. “And you know what? Call me Pops if you'd like…“

“Maybe I'll just call you Julio?“

“Of course, son.“ I left him at the chili dog restaurant with a fresh one. He could have this round. It was clear he had the chili dog gene too and, at his ripe age, it'd be no problem to scarf down three or maybe even four in a sitting.

I went home and took out my 'blades. It had been weeks since my last hockey simulation and I needed to burn off some energy before my meeting with Gregor.

I strapped on my rollerblades tight and grabbed my stick. It felt so sweet and cathartic to 'blade around campus, doing spin moves against invisible opponents, scoring a hundred invisible goals.

I arrived at the dining hall twenty minutes early and noticed a man wearing aviator shades, sitting by himself and eating a large salad. He looked way too young for the job, but he stunk of the F.B.I.

“Agent Gregor?“ I asked as a piece of red cabbage slipped loose from the man's jaw.

“Sit down.“ I did as he said, though his tone wasn't appreciated. Didn't he know we were on the same side?

“What do you know and when did you know it?“ Agent Gregor grumbled.

“Hold up,“ I replied. “What do I know? Very little actually. I was actually hoping you'd have some answers for—“

“Shut your goddam mouth!“ Gregor screamed, slamming a plastic salad fork which then bounced off the table and went flying across the room. The student body present sat muted with stifled laughter.

“Calm down, dude,“ I said. “You know what? Let me buy you a beer.“

We went to one of the local pubs, which was much more crowded than usual with college kids indulging in their true purpose to kick the new year off right. “I'm a Mic Ultra man, myself,“ the Agent said, declining my recommendation of a local IPA. “I'm sorry about that outburst earlier. I've been under a lot of stress.“

“No worries, Special Agent. Can I call you Special Agent?“

“Please, no. Call me Jay.“

“Okay Jay,“ I said, overemphasizing the rhyme with a chuckle. It went over his head. “So… “ I didn't know where to begin.

“Just… begin at the beginning,“ Jay said, sensing my unease and confusion.

“I'll try my best.

“It all started when my wife threw my toaster in the toilet. I mean, who does that? What a thing to do. I can recall just standing in front of it, my unplugged toaster floating in the water. It's only a two-slice model so it actually fit pretty good. Room to bob and whatnot, like a little silver boat lost at sea. It was kinda beautiful.

“That wasn't the end of things, naturally. But it was certainly a marker. That was 2012, the dead of winter. I knew I had to make a change. My life was going nowhere…”

MAY 1st, 1992

Shiela rubbed her very preggers belly. Then she itched around the rope where her ankles were tied to the bed. She was in Celebration, Florida and it was May Day. This surely wasn't a party but she was in trouble.

As the first morning light began to show, Otto Zimmerman sped back from Kissimmee, about twenty minutes to the west. It was time.

“This is just…” Sheila stammered, “an idea. It doesn’t… mean anything.”

Otto pulled a syringe out of his black bag and set it on the side table. He made sure the blinds were drawn tight and double-checked the locks on the motel door.

“There’s going to be a few injections,” Otto told her. “Then… the hospital.”

Shiela began to cry.

“Please, try to remain calm.” Otto got out some more supplies, vials and more needles. “I’m going to drop you off. This is going to be all over soon.

“For your baby,” he reminded her, patting her leg.

Otto pulled up to Florida Hospital with a blindfolded Sheila tied up and moaning in the backseat. It was just shy of noon. He wasn’t a gambling man but he gave the baby 50/50 odds of being born today. Or perhaps he considered, with a cold and deep calculation in his soul, of being born at all. He wasn’t certain he had delivered the induction drugs correctly.

“Not to be crass, Mule,” Otto said to his friend. “But if that baby’s born at 12:01 AM, then it might as well be a stillborn.”

Mule grunted. He didn’t know if these were strange fantasies or unthinkable realities. “You gotta wine and dine those dentistry holes, fella. Maybe they’ll come back to life? Not sure how teeth work?” Mule was pointing to Otto’s mouth, which was sans dentures at the moment, exposing multiple crevasses where teeth used to exist, the product of late adulthood in hockey.

“You knob. We’re all so close to being inhabited from the inside out by insects, in the scheme of things…” he stammered. “These insects, that will rip our cells into explosive new versions, they… so what’s the point? Don’t make me call Gerald again, okay? Teeth? We'll be able to generate jaws of steels when they hatch.“ Mule blinked dumbly.

They got back to their vigorous skating exercises on the shimmering rink of The Ice Factory, Kissimmee’s best public venue for open skating and youth hockey practice.

“Did you really knock her up with a rape?” Mule asked after they finished another speed round.

“Oh no. Love is love,” Otto replied, barely out of breath. “It had to be love.”

Back at the hospital, just five miles away, Shiela was in good care and ready to do the final pushing. Her son was born at 6:12 in the evening. She named him James. She would call him Jimmy, Jimmy Brown. He was as healthy as a baby elephant.

Just down the hall, another baby had been born almost twelve hours earlier, a little girl. Her proud, young parents named her Joan Jane Marbles.

•••

“You know,” I said, coyly, betweens sips of first class airplane champagne. “Right when I saw your baby bump… I knew it was mine.“

“And you didn't even know I was rich yet,“ Alecia Wilcox said with a wink.

“Bingo. And cheers to that.“ The two of us shared a laugh.

We were flying first class direct from Newark into Bremen Airport, in northwestern Germany. We were on a mission to find Truman Sky. It was Christmas Eve, 2014 and it had three weeks since we'd mysteriously lost contact with Special Agent Jay Gregor of the F.B.I.

“Should we check on Joe?“ Alecia asked.

“He's like a little brother to you,“ I said. “That's nice. Because… he's like a son to me.“

“Well,“ she said. “Not too much like a brother.“ Alecia winked and we shared a chuckle.

“No more 'pagne for the expecting mom!“ I shouted, playfully snatching her flute away. “I'm gonna go see Joe.“

The plane was half empty and Alecia had more than enough money to have had bought Joe a first class ticket too. I guess this was some kind of power move within our weird, new family structure.

“Joey baby!“ I said, drunkenly, slapping him on the knee. He was fast asleep.

“Jesus, Julio, trying to catch some Z's here.“

“There'll be time for sleep enough when we find this Sky fellow.“ I'm not sure what I meant by that. “What are you gonna do when we find him? Rip his fingernails out?“ I was wasted beyond belief.

“You know,“ Joe said, contemplating something deep and true. “I can't get over the fact that… that I know him. Or I knew him before.“

It was true. When we had snooped on the Skype session between he and Alecia a few days earlier, Joe had been visibly shaken. “Do you think, maybe,“ I said, emitting a tiny belch before finishing my thought. “…that he's your dad?“

Joe ignored me and I slumped over on the two coach seats next to him, falling asleep almost instantly.

When we got to the hotel suite later that same morning, I made sure everyone hid their wallets in good hiding places around the room. “Wallet-hiding is good practice wherever you are, but in a foreign country that rule counts double. Dibs on the microwave.“

“But what if we need cash or ID?“ Alecia asked.

I loosened my tube socks, which were pretty loose and stretched out to begin with, and revealed said items rubbing gently against my ankle. “Bingo.“

We were there on a mission: find Sky and get some answers. There was no time for site-seeing.

“Let's get right to the arena and stake it out,“ Joe said.

“Excellent idea, son. Early bird catches the Truman.“

“More like ‘True-Worm’,” Alecia said with a wink.

We hopped in a German taxi cab and I told the driver to step on it. “Actually, hold up,“ I said, changing my mind. “We should eat first. Driver, what's the German equivalent of a chili dog.“ I winked at Joe. Alecia rolled her eyes.

Several stops later, we had the ingredients for some makeshift chili dogs: bratwurst, some kind of a soft pastry item, and a watery stew that, while a far cry from meaty American chili, was good in its own right. “Jesus,“ Alecia cried. “Can we get on with it already!“

“Easy my little container of buttermilk, that's not good for our baby.“

We were parked outside the venue by early afternoon. One thing we definitely weren't sure of was the approximate age of Truman Sky. He had told Alecia he was seventy at the time of their marriage but she felt he might be even older. “He often talked about living forever,“ she'd said. “He took dozens of cocktails of new age anti-aging drugs. Real cutting edge stuff. From Africa, I think.”

The real mystery was whether or not he was actually playing hockey in the D.E.L. or if he was using a ringer. Visual documentation was hard to come by. Plus, all the beautiful German beards the skaters donned weren't helping. It was hard to peg their ages.

We had reason to believe that he would be here at the venue early, even on Christmas Eve. He was a true hockey junkie, just like me. If I hadn’t been an expecting father of not one, but two children, then hell I'd probably be out on the ice too.

Bremerhaven Arena was set to host a prime-time holiday matchup between the hometown Fischtown Pinguins and Eisbären Berlin, AKA the Berlin Polar Bears. My excitement for seeing some hot international hockey wasn’t easy to mask but we weren’t in Mother Deutschland for fun and games.

“I still don’t see the appeal, Alecia. An old man like that.”

“Well, it wasn’t sexual,” she replied. I was taken aback. I didn’t know this.

“I didn’t know that,” I said.

“It was at first, at the very beginning.” Alecia began to blush. “But then, you know… it stopped working.”

“Hmm. She’s talking about his dick, Joe,” I said. Joe nodded. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“What does it matter?”

“What?” I retorted. “It matters. It’s… weird.”

Just at that moment, a black Mercedes Benz pulled up. The driver was a brutish, extremely tall man. He looked like a player for sure. He walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. He lifted out an old man and carried him like a baby. It was Truman Sky.

“Oh my god,” I said. “It’s him. What happened?”

“On Skype, there was no way of knowing he couldn’t walk,” Joe said, and I nodded in agreement.

Alecia teared up a little.

“I don’t think he’s on the active roster.”

“What do we do now?”

“Well, we didn’t travel almost 4,000 miles to stare. Let’s move out.”

I tipped the driver a pretty penny, and the three of us got out of the cab. Alecia cupped her preggers tum-tum and looked anxious. Joe aired his unusual mix of aloofness and eerie confidence.

“Truman? Professor Truman Sky?” I yelled from across the parking lot.

The large man turned and immediately tilted the old human in his hands towards us, as if pointing a flashlight in total darkness. “Well, well, well,” he said. “Look what the cat dragged in.”

The elderly man indeed gave us all a good once-over. His body was all immobile, saggy nothingness, but his eyes were bright. “Ms. Alecia. Professor McManus. And…“

“This is Joe Marbles, Truman,“ I replied. “I believe you know his sister… Joan Jane?“

With that, his eyes turned sour and glum. “Ah, yes,“ he said morosely. “Please, Professor, may I have a word with you in private. It is indeed you who is in charge of this caravan, isn't it son?“

“Umm,“ I stumbled. “Well, of course it is. I think… I think that should be alright.“

“Good. Follow me to my office. Alecia, and… Joe, please hold tight. I'll have someone bring you finger sandwiches.“

“And what?“ Alecia balked. “Eat them standing up here on the cement?“

Just then, the large man spoke for the first time. He told us they'd also bring folding chairs and a little table. “Don't worry,“ he said. “They're comfortable chairs. I've sat in them.“

I followed Truman and the man inside the arena, through a few doors and up a long narrow staircase. His office was in what he referred to as “the bird's nest,“ high above the ice. “Best view in the house,“ he said. Admittedly, I felt like a little school girl at the thought of being able to watch the game from so high. I had to focus hard on the mission at hand. It wasn't easy.

“One parallel between us,“ I began, “which, frankly, is totally odd, and I'm not sure you even know about, is… our shared affinity for the sport of ice hockey.“ I paused. “I'm a junkie too.“

I made a two-handed cupping gesture as I said this. Truman Sky laughed.

“Son,“ he said. “I know a lot more about you than you could ever possibly realize.“

I immediately felt nervous. I wondered where the large man was. And what kind of finger sandwiches were being served outside. “But you didn't come all this way to talk pucks with an old man. Did you?“

“The boy's missing sister. I think you know something about it. And I think it has something to do with The Egg Queen.“

“Not. Bad,“ Truman said with a mock affect. “But first, indulge me. What have you learned about The Egg Queen, yourself. You uncovered the true nature of the R.V.C.C. E.S. Department faster than I thought you would, so let's have it. What do you know?“

“For starters,“ I told him. “She's the key to the universe and perhaps even the path to everlasting life. Something to do with the regeneration of cells.“ I stopped to scratch my chin. “Frankly, I haven't made much headway lately. The last few months have been pretty hectic.“

“It certainly appears you have had a lot on your plate, what with your international travel plans and impregnating another man's wife.“

How did he know?

“But that's neither here nor there. You're here now. And there? …there might as well be Montana at this point. So tell me Julio, we know so much about the 'what' as it pertains to The Egg Queen, but we know relatively little about the 'why' and, perhaps, most importantly… the 'who'.“ He paused and opened his desk drawer. He took out a piece of paper and a pen. “Who do you, son, think The Egg Queen really is?“

I was pretty flabbergasted. “I… I don't know. I'm pretty sure we're dealing with 'what' instead of 'who'. You're not insinuating…“

“Let me spell it out for you, son…“ He put pen to paper and began to speak, slowly, as he drew on the page.

“If two babies, born of the same father to different mothers on the same day, a boy and a girl, grow up and have sex with each other on their eighteenth birthday and this sex results in a pregnancy, and that pregnancy is carried to full term, then that child, if it is female, is The Egg Queen.“

DECEMBER 24th, 1994

Clark returned from the hunting expedition with a fresh, large buck. He took pride in skinning it in his deer shed. The smell of blood made him horny.

“Sheila and the boy are in for it tonight,“ he muttered, his hands massaging the deer hunt. He took a big bite. “Amen.“

He went back into the cabin and washed his hands. When they were married, he and Sheila Brown mutually agreed that he would become the boy's legal father. On one condition.

He change the son's name to Clarkson Maxx. Son of Clark. Clark thought that was medieval or something, and he liked it. He liked the sound of it.

“Clarkson,“ he said. The little boy, now two-and-a-half, stared at his stepfather blankly. “If you're lucky, I'll throw a couple venison bites in your baby food.“

“He really shouldn't eat that. The—“ Sheila tried to interject, but a beer bottle came flying at her head. This time Clark didn't just scare her. His aim was off and it hit her smack between the eyes. There was blood everywhere. Clarkson began to cry.

About fifteen miles down the road, Otto Zimmerman was checking into the Caribou Inn and Convention Center. The receptionist looked sad and asked him why he was alone on Christmas Eve.

“That's really none of your business, but thanks for asking.” Otto rubbed his beard. “I’m looking for something out here. Maybe peace of mind.“

“Good place for it,“ she said with an embarrassed smile.

The ride into northern Maine had truly been a lovely one, and if Otto was the type of man who gave a shit about enlightenment, well, he'd have had to agree. Otto couldn't argue that. But if it wasn't peace of mind he was after, it wasn't spiritual. It wasn't the kind of anything you or I would ever recognize.

Otto locked the door behind him and dropped his large duffel bag on the bed. The room had several extremely large paintings of wooded scenes. Otto counted two bucks and one doe. “That number's off.“ He chuckled.

He dialed for an outside line and rang Mule. As he waited for him to pick up, he removed his sniper rifle from the duffel and began to polish it. “Yup,“ Mule finally answered.

“I'm here. Go see Gerald and check on the thing.“ He hung up the phone.

Otto picked up a pen on the nightstand and walked over to the painting. He started scribbling an orb over the bigger buck in the center of the picture, covering its prideful horns. His swiveling hand turned over and over on the canvas. Soon, the great male deer had no more antlers.

But a large black egg, a crown atop her head instead.

•••

The Target Corp. Board of Directors watched diligently behind the two-way mirror. The doctors surrounding Joan Jane Marbles were all wearing hazmat suits over their body armor. They were prepared for anything. The Chairman fixed his hand over the kill switch. If anything were to go wrong, he’d torch the room. The doctors knew this risk. Money talks, so they walked. Or in this case, they prepared to deliver a child that could be an inter-dimensional creature. They signed up for it. They had all been deep beneath the company’s Minneapolis headquarters since apprehending Joan Jane just after Memorial Day Weekend, 2011. She had been on a ketamine binge which nearly nullified the pregnancy. It was a long journey back for both mother and the unborn baby girl, but everything was looking good. It was January 22nd, 2012, and she was being induced. When the baby was born, nothing happened. It was just a baby. The Board named the child Wendy. A majority vote rules to execute the mother. They killed Joan Jane Marbles via lethal injection later that same day.

•••

“It’s all random. It’s all chance,” Sky said, followed by a long sigh. “I can control so much of the equation, but at that moment… life is gonna do what life is gonna do.

“My first attempt was an epic failure yet it was still a near-perfect try. There’s no room for error when it comes to Egg Science.

“It was 1981. The babies were born within an hour of each other, though I didn’t know it at the time. One in New Jersey and one in Anaconda, Montana, of all places. Don’t ask. But, alas… two boys. No bingo.”

“This is… insane,” I told him. “You’re certifiably nuts.”

He laughed. “I called it the 'Y Ask Y' dilemma. On account of the two boys. Y chromosome? Get it?“

“I think I'm gonna be sick…“

•••

Jay and I were wasted. We stumbled back to my apartment for a nightcap. It had felt good: spilling my guts to him at the bar on the night of our first meeting. He even though he was a Special Agent in the F.B.I. and I was a science teacher at a community college, it felt like we could have been brothers. Or maybe even father-son. He looked so unbelievably young! There was just so much going on. I hadn’t realized I was so stressed out.

Just then, Penny the Rott came barreling in. She wasn’t wearing her Scream mask and I was livid. “Penny,” I yelled. “Bad girl! Where’s your mask?”

“What?” said Gregor, giggling.

“Bad. Girl!” I grabbed Penny by the collar and screamed into her ugly face. “You’re hideous! You make me sick!”

Just then, she started to maul me. Penny got me by the throat and I passed out.

DECEMBER 25th, 1994

Otto crept up on the cabin just after daybreak on Christmas morning. His rifle was loaded.

Inside the house, a night of much carnage had mercifully ended with Clark Maxx lying passed out on the floor. Sheila, despite having both eyes nearly gauged out by her abusive husband, had managed to get her son to sleep. She wept, softly, in the bathroom, trying to assess the extent of her injuries. She could barely see. The world was a cloud. She trembled and felt ill. “Why…“ she cried to her murky and unrecognizable reflection.

Otto was outside the window now. He saw the body of the man he'd come to assassinate spread out on the floor. He let himself in. This was going to be much easier or much harder than he thought.

“Who's that?“ Sheila shrieked. Clarkson began to stir in the other room.

“It's me.“ Shiela knew the voice immediately.

“What?“ She felt in an odd sense of relief with the timing of this return, the return of the boy's real father. “Why?“

“I'd heard you were in some trouble,“ Otto declared. “And by the looks of it… My god… your eyes.“

“Please,“ Sheila pleaded. “Help us.“

“I will. I'm going to do three things. In return, I am going to ask for only one.“

“Yes…“

“Okay,“ Otto took a deep breath and licked his lips. “I'm going to kill and dispose of this vile man. I'm going to shoot him in the head with this rifle and destroy his body.“ This was the first thing and Sheila nodded in silence.

“In between the time that I put a bullet in his head and get rid of the body, I'm going to drive you to the hospital, the Cary Medical Center. We're going to take his truck. You're going to say that you were attacked while the three of you were sleeping by an unknown assailant. You're going to say that he chased the attacker into the woods and you were able to escape with the boy in his truck.“

“But… my eyes? I can't see. I can’t drive.”

“You'll need to believe in miracles. Even if they aren’t true. The people at the hospital will.“ Otto continued. “The third thing that I'm gonna do is be a part of your son's life from now on. And the thing I need from you is you're going to move to New Jersey. You're going to start a new life with that little boy somewhere in New Jersey, somewhere in the middle of the state. When you're settled, I'll find you. But I won't be me. I'll be someone else.“

Shiela began to weep loudly, which awoke the baby who also began to cry in turn. Otto couldn't stand the sound of it all. “Why? Why New Jersey? New Jersey? Why!”

Otto pulled out his gun and shot Clarkson Maxx in the head. Shiela screamed and fell to her knees. “Get the kid!“ He yelled.

“I can't see! I can't see anything!“

Otto realized she was fully blind now. He looked with pity at her bloody face and the painful sounds swirling in the cabin hushed to a whisper in his mind. He went to the boy's crib and gently picked him up. “Hello,“ he said in a fatherly tone. “It's going to be alright.“

He got mother and child into Clark's truck and dropped them off in front of the hospital. “You never saw me,” he said. Otto put the truck keys in Sheila's pocket and ran off into the woods back toward the cabin.

•••

I couldn't take it anymore. The old man was certifiable. He wasn’t making any sense. All this time I had never once dreamt the origins of The Egg Queen were anything but scientific in nature. This disgusting and disturbing, all-together mystical chatter was something else entirely. I needed to get out of that office, that bird’s nest.

“Where’s the bathroom?” I shouted. Truman directed me and I exited his office in a panic. I dreamt I was still married to Melinda, curled up next to her expecting mid-section, our pre-deformed Rottweiler Penny cuddling too.

I barged into the empty bathroom high atop the arena and went to the sink. I cupped water into my hands and looked in the mirror. I screamed at what I saw.

It wasn’t me.

I began to yell, as if my voice could undo this dissonance. Luckily, my voice was still my own. I tried to talk my way through it. “Calm down. Maybe you've always looked like this.“ I retreated to a stall and sat on the toilet. I peeled my palms and fingers against my face, attempting to find the edges of this mask or some other sensory clue as to what might have happened to my appearance.

I thought about Alecia and my unborn baby daughter. I wondered if they were enjoying the finger sandwiches. I wished all my fingers were finger sandwiches and every inch of my face an animal's mouth. If I could devour myself, inside out, and escape this strange mess…

APRIL 16th, 1995

Sheila Maxx and her beloved son kept their surnames out of deference to Otto Zimmerman, who showed up, true to his word, not a month after they were settled in a modest duplex in Bridgewater, New Jersey. But his name wasn't Otto Zimmerman anymore.

“Call me Sky,“ he said. “Truman Sky.“ He explained that by keeping the name Maxx it would lower suspicions around the disappearance of her late husband, still an open investigation in Aroostook County, Maine.

It was Easter morning. Young Clarkson was making a mess out of a chocolate bunny. “Chocolate bunny is my favorites,” the toddler announced.

“Won't be terribly long before I'm fully settled here,” Truman told them. “Well, a year or more maybe. Still working things out.“ Shiela sat in the corner, quietly, red Ray-Bans covering the space on her face where her eyes used to be. “I'm extremely sorry about everything, you know,“ the man she knew now as a voice and not a body who called himself Truman Sky said.

“Previously,“ Sheila answered. “I knew you as only a body. You never told me your name. Your body did terrible things to my body.“

“Not all terrible,“ Truman said, gesturing at the little boy, forgetting for a moment Shiela was blind.

“You had a voice then, too,“ she continued. “But I do not remember it. You may as well have been a creature. I don't think you're human now.“

“Be that as it may, you'd probably be dead if not for me. I know you don't want to hear that.“ Truman paused to sit on the living room couch. “And little Clarkson, well—“

“Please!“ Sheila yelled. “His name is Jimmy. I'm going to call him Jimmy.“

“Call him Jimmy!“ The chocolatey mouth parroted.

“Jimmy, sure. Colloquially… that's fine. I'm not trying to make things harder on you than they already here. Just don't do anything official.“

“Are you done?“ She asked. “The helper is due back any moment. She left for Easter brunch.“

“Yes,“ Truman Sky said. “Take good care of him… and yourself.“ He saw himself but not before making deep eye contact with his son.

“Bye-bye,” said Clarkson waving.

Sheila made her way to the front door and listened for his car to start and pull away. When she was certain he was gone, she went to the kitchen and a dialed a number on the new phone she’d just installed. The phone had extra large buttons.

“He’s gone. Are you coming over?” she asked. The voice on the other end said yes. “Are we going to do this now?” The voice said yes again.

APRIL 15, 1955

Gerald Wear watched the sunset in Manila. “Gotta light, Otto?“ He asked his friend, his partner.

“You know,“ Otto replied. “For someone so consumed with finding the key to immortality, you sure love smoking.“ He handed him a box of matches. They shared a hearty chuckle.

The duo were in the final year of medical school at the University of the Philippines, but the whole gig was a front. They were working in secret on a special project with their mentor, Phylicia Altschul.

Phyl, as she liked to be called, had pegged the two as potential candidates for the secret project during their freshman year at Princeton. They had a rare aptitude for complex science and biology, and even greater one for keeping their mouths shut.

Phyl, as it were, was never going anywhere professionally in the states because of her gender. Such was academia in the 50s. So she relocated to the Philippines, just as the war was ending. The medical school was rebuilding their facilities from scratch.

It was she who discovered, or perhaps invented, The Egg Queen. Her grand theory stated that a genetically mutated being could be conjured that would have the magnitude to spontaneously generate, at will, eggs. Eggs that would hatch and unleash smaller creatures, her minions, insect-like animals that could infest other animals and symbiotically live in harmony, together, feeding off and repairing each other's cells, for the rest of time. “The end of death,“ she'd said. “The end of nearly all death.“

“You can thing of them as insects,“ she'd told the duo. “If you need a visual. It's purely theoretical but they would most likely resemble insects, or small amphibians.“

“Did you see the paper?“ Otto asked. “The Wings won the cup.“

“Ah, Detroit,“ Gerald replied. “What a run they're on.“

Ice hockey was about as foreign to the Philippines as apple pie. And Otto and Gerald missed it terribly.

•••

I barreled out into the parking lot in a huff. I had gotten turned around inside and was on the opposite side of the arena. I jogged around until I came upon Alecia and Joe who, sure enough, were sitting with the large man around a small table, eating finger sandwiches.

“Alecia, my…“ I didn't know where to begin. She stood up quickly, sensing my complete anguish. I noticed her stomach. It was huge. She looked ready to pop. It didn't make sense. How was she so far along? It looked like she was carrying triplets. None of it made any sense.

JANUARY 1st, 2006

Gerald laid on his deathbed, the victim of advanced lung cancer. It would be any moment now. His nearly ten-year-old twins were playing in the yard. It was a beautiful day in Southern California.

“He's here,“ Gerald's wife said, surprised. “And sure enough he's got an animal with him.“

A week earlier, they'd received a mysterious email which only read, in all caps: “MIGHT BE ABLE TO SAVE GERALD WEAR'S LIFE. REPLY BACK 'OK' IF INTERESTED. A MAN WILL ARRIVE AT YOUR HOUSE ASAP. HE WILL HAVE AN ANIMAL WITH HIM.“ Gerald's wife let them in. The animal was in a medium-sized travel container and she couldn't make out what it was of course because she was man. She showed the man the master bedroom and closed the door behind her.

“Mr. Gerald Wear,“ she heard the man say brightly. “Today's your lucky day.“ To Gerald’s wife, the voice sounded female.

“Well,“ Gerald said, barely able to speak. “Let's see who’s in that cage.“ The extreme weirdness of the situation provided some levity from the pain and he was able to smile for the first time in weeks.

The man placed the compartment on the foot of the bed and released a large rodent, which sat elegantly before Gerald like an obedient dog.

Gerald laughed. And then violently coughed.

•••

“What the hell is going on here, Alecia?“ I yelled. “My face? And your… belly?“

“Calm down, Julio,“ she said, coming over to me. She waddled as if she was three weeks past her due date. “Everything's fine. The baby's fine.“

I gave her that one for the moment. “Well what about my face? I'm… not me. I look nothing like me.“ She gave me a worried look in return.

“Julio…“ she cooed. “You're… you're you.“ Everything started to swirl. I couldn't focus. I glanced at the video board outside the arena. The logo for the Berlin Polar Bears struck a chord. They were a D.E.L. proper squad. Why were they playing a second tier team?

“What year is this?“ I said, unhinged with fragility.

Just then a robin flew down from the sky at an incredible rate of speed. It landed on Alecia's shoulder and… spoke.

“It's time, my friends,“ the bird said. “Jimmy, go fetch your father.“

The skin around the little bird's right eye began to wiggle, revealing silver, mechanical rings and a cold green glow where its pupil had been.

FEBRUARY 3rd, 1972

The work had stalled.

Phyl was growing weary with the lack of progress in locating The Egg Queen. She was on verge of abandoning the project all together. It had been a decade and a half of tireless work, and they had gotten nowhere. They didn’t know who or what she was. It was all theoretical.

She was ready to move.

“I’m ready to move on,” she told Otto and Gerald. The three were eating large bowls of fettuccine with white clam sauce. “It’s been too long, she said, slurping a long noodle.

“Really, Phyl?” Otto groaned. “You don’t think we’re making headway?”

“Robotics. Have you heard about this?” She said.

“Certainly,” Gerald replied. “Can you pass the grated cheese?”

“I’m moving to Japan. Waseda University to be exact. I’ve accepted a consulting position and I’ll be working under the tutelage of Sumisu Jin on a special robot project.” Phyl dabbed her lips with a napkin. The white clam sauce was very greasy.

“Well,” Otto began, feeling betrayed. “I won’t relinquish the fight.” He stared at his friend Gerald across the table. “And I know Gerald Wear feels the same way. We’re going to find her. We’re going to find The Egg Queen.”

Gerald nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “Waiter,” he called. “I think we’ll need some doggy bags.”

•••

The scene that was unfolding was surreal. When I think about it now, of course, it all makes perfect sense. But at the time I’m not certain how I experienced it without passing out.

Special Agent Gregor had appeared out of nowhere and was holding a gun to my head.

Joe Marbles had a knife to Truman Sky’s throat.

And the robot bird had pecked out the eyes of the large man who was apparently named Jimmy.

As Jimmy writhed in pain on the parking lot ground, the bird instructed us to move our little party inside. “To the basement,” it said.

Before we left, Joe removed his shirt, revealing a set of at least a dozen toaster slots dug into his chrome torso. The toaster slots were of various shapes and sizes. He picked up a finger sandwich and inserted it into one where his right nipple would have been. It seemed unnecessary. He stared at me with cold eyes as he did it. He was a robot too, but a humanoid one. “My god,” I muttered.

In the room, well beneath the ice of the hockey arena, there was a hospital bed and various medical tools for childbirth waiting. I looked at Alecia and frowned. She climbed into the bed.

The vicious robin with the glowing eye laid it all out.

“Welcome. We are here for the true birth of The Egg Queen,” it said. Its voice was that of a computer-generated male. “This was, of course, attempted once before under the supervision of the Target Corp. Death Squad in 2012, nearly six years ago.” The date was wrong… or was it? I thought it was Christmas, 2014. But that didn’t add up. The bird continued, “They failed because they did not have knowledge of the final step. But it wasn’t a true failure. Born of their experiment was Wendy the God of Time. Wendy, sweet Wendy, recently deceased. Rest in peace. She was eaten by a dinosaur.”

“Most likely,” Jay added.

I looked at Truman Sky who was already staring back on me, a peculiar smirk plastered to his wrinkly face.

“Yes, most likely,” the robin replied. It then flew and landed on the corner of the hospital bed closest to Truman. “I ask of you this, Professor Truman Sky… do you have any idea what the final step is?”

“Why yes, Gerald,” he answered. “I have a pretty good idea.”

I was so thoroughly confused. This robot bird did not look like a Gerald.

“Hahaha,” the bird said, a clear facsimile of fake laughter. “My friend. My old pal. Even in your withered state, you are still so quick. If I was wearing a hat, I’d tip it to you, Otto.”

Otto?

“I’m sure you would, Gerald. I’m sure you would.”

“Now,” the bird continued. “Tell your son what’s going to happen next.”

Son?

The man I’d known as Professor Truman Sky, my predecessor as the head of the Egg Science department at Raritan Valley Community College in New Jersey, looked at me with complete sincerity. “Julio,” he said. “I’m your father.” I was speechless. Now it really felt like I might pass out. “The boys I was telling you about earlier. The mistakes? Well, you’re one of them. You have a brother out in Montana. His name’s Ed. He’s still in Anaconda. He’s lived there is whole life. He doesn’t know about any of this. He sells insurance and has three kids. My real name’s Otto Zimmerman. I’m very sorry about all of this.”

“What…” I felt like crying. My whole life had been a lie. Alecia began to push.

“But. That’s. Not. All,” the Gerald the robot bird said dramatically.

“No,” Otto answered. “If my calculations are correct, you’ve got us in this precarious scenario for a reason. I reckoned the Target boys didn’t have any luck when I didn’t hear anything, so I knew we’d missed something, or there was some kind of extra step. My best guess is a father-son sacrifice at the moment of birth?”

“Bingo,” Gerald replied. The bird was clearly beaming at the deduction powers of his apparent, former friend.

“The fuck?” I yelled. “They’re going to kill us?” I screamed. And on top of that, the damn robotic robin had stolen my line.

“Don’t try anything funny, “ Special Agent Jay Gregor said, pulling one of my arms tighter and lifting the gun closer to my skull.

“And who the fuck are you? F.B.I.? The F.B.I.’s in on this demented bullshit?” I was livid now, ready to go out in a ball of glory.

“Let me field this one, son, if I may,” Otto said.

“Please,” Gerald told him.

“That man with the gun to your head isn’t likely who you think he is. If I had to guess, he’s the proud papa, no?”

“He’s good!” Alecia shouted, in between lamaze breaths.

“And so these are your children, Gerald. Congratulations. You were always the more nurturing one, in many ways. You clearly did a bang-up job delivering the message.” Otto sighed. “Of course, I have no idea why you’re a bird.” He laughed.

“Fuck you,” I yelled. “Fuck you, dad.” Whoever was holding me grabbed on tighter. “So what the fuck happened to my face? Answer me that––“

“Enough!” Gerald the robot bird declared, soaring straight at my face. He gave me a quick but brutal peck on the cheek and I collapsed.

“Let’s stick to the script,” Alecia said. “We’ve come this far.” She continued to be in what appeared to be advanced labor.

“We’re a part of this, Julio,” Otto told me as I wiped blood from my face. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

“I never wanted this,” I said. I got to one knee and looked around the room. “And the Polar Bears and Penguins aren’t on the same tier. How are they playing each other? Why?”

Alecia chuckled. “They replaced the Hamburg Freezers in 2016. You know, that was the one wrinkle I thought had a chance of screwing this whole thing up,” she said. “You’re really are a diehard puck-head.”

“Lotta good it did me,” I told her. I truly had missed the net with that one, the clue which could’ve saved my life.

“Please,” Otto, my dad, said. “Try to embrace this.”

“My name is Alexander,” the man I’d known as Special Agent Jay Gregor told me, helping me to my feet. “She’s my sister, my twin sister.” He looked sick and twisted, nothing at all like the fast friend I’d made that night at the bar.

“Well,” I said, staring at Alecia. “That is fucking gross. This whole thing.” I wiped a bloody hand across my shirt. “You’re all disgusting. I hope you do all live forever. Because you’ll be living in this hell you’ve created.”

“Please,” Gerald said. “Don’t insult my children, my beautiful twins. The creators and saviors of humankind…”

“Just a few more pushes,” Alecia warned.

“This is, what, 2017?” I asked.

“Correct,” Gerald replied. His bird body was a only a few inches from Alecia’s womb where, allegedly, The Egg Queen would soon be emerging.

“So, how are the Pinguins doing in the big league?” I said, mimicking Alecia’s bad pronunciation from what I now guessed was several years earlier.

“Middle of the pack,” dad said.

Minutes passed in silence, save the grunts and screams of a woman giving birth. She was close.

Robot Joe, with his toaster chest protruding, geared up to kill my father. The knife in his hand, now touching the flesh of Otto Zimmerman’s neck. And Alexander did the same with his gun, pressing it firmly against the back of my head. Maybe he was right. Maybe this was my purpose. It was far too weird to fight, that’s for sure. I wasn’t even myself anymore. So if I’d be dying, it wouldn’t be me. It’d be whoever this was. On Christmas Eve in Germany, in the future. Perhaps the real me was somewhere else, with a different mind and voice. But the correct face.

Just then a woman came barging through the door in a furious panic. She had a Seeing Eye dog, a German shepherd, and was guiding the large fellow, Jimmy. “Gerald!” She screamed. “You said he wouldn’t be harmed!”

“Mommy!” Jimmy cried out, still bleeding from his empty eye sockets.

The woman ripped off her sunglasses to reveal a gruesome eye injury of her own.

Alecia was giving birth.

The Egg Queen was here.

“Sheila!” Gerald the robot bird exclaimed. “Sheila, no!”

From the side pocket of her Seeing Eye dog’s satchel, Sheila removed a large, automatic weapon. “Jimmy, hit the deck!” She screamed. She unloaded the weapon. Spraying bullets all over the room.

First she hit Alecia, the new mother, killing her instantly with a headshot. Alexander tried to save her but he took about ten bullets in the torso and was dead just as quick.

But the luckiest shot of all was the bird. Gerald had taken flight, up toward the ceiling, but she nailed him. He exploded in a tiny lightning bolt and fell to pieces.

I’m not sure if Robot Joe took a bullet but he keeled over and fell to the ground as well. Perhaps he was digitally rooted to the bird in some way and effectively ‘died’ when his ‘master’ was taken out. Perhaps we’ll never know. I felt bad for Robot Joe, even though that stunt with the finger sandwiches was a real jerk move.

“Stop shooting!” I cried. “They’re all dead.”

“Who’s that?” Shiela called. Otto let out a groan. He’d been hit too.

“It’s Julio,” I said, catching my breath. “The, umm… son-half of the father-son sacrifice…” I didn’t know how much explaining I should try to do. “For the… The Egg Queen. A human sacrifice for The Egg Queen.”

“Oh god,” Sheila collapsed, reaching out for Jimmy. “The baby… is she? Did I…”

With all the chaos, we’d initially failed to notice that a perfect, utterly zen-like, newborn baby girl lay unharmed at the end of the bed. The skin on her face began to glow yellow and she let out a bellow, a sound I’d never heard before. A sound not of this planet.

Up above, hockey fans in their navy and red began trickling into Bremerhaven Arena.

JANUARY 22nd, 2028

On the day of Wendy’s Sweet 16, she was finally certain that the last of the minions from the Target Corp. Death Squad had stopped tracking her. It was time.

Time to defy the logic and parameters of time, for she was Wendy the God of Time.

Her parents had organized the Sweet 16 at the El Campanario Ballroom in El Paso, near where they lived. God only knows what savings they unloaded to pay for the hing. Wendy would miss them terribly. They were truly great people, and she owed them everything. It was only through their love, compassion and patience that she was able to nurture her gift and discover who she truly was.

She went into the bathroom and locked a stall door. She started to insert her head into her own vagina. How she knew this would open up a portal for time travel is anyone’s guess, but unleash a tear in the fabric of time it did. Wendy was off to the races.

Time travel came naturally to her. The discovery and responsibility that she was in fact a God? Less so.

Her favorite era was when the dinosaurs roamed the earth. She had seen the future and it was bleak. She liked the years on earth when the humans hadn’t arrived yet. While her sad and gruesome death might not come as a surprise since feeding dinosaurs was her favorite hobby, she’d been doing for the equivalent of thousands of years. It was during those hours spent feeding a brontosaurus from high atop the prehistoric trees that she came to terms with what needed to be done.

In fact, while she was eaten by dinosaurs (Compsognathus to be exact, a small carnivorous dino the size of a turkey), that’s not how she died. She died when a pterodactyl knocked her from the treetops some eighty feet off the ground. She had been pondering the work she’d just completed in altering the future of humanity on earth, and she was so lost in thought that she hadn’t seen the large flying beast coming right for her.

She died without knowing if it had worked or not.

In her travels to the future, she’d seen the dreary landscapes of a post-human society. They hadn’t unlocked enough keys to the singularity in time, and the machines now ruled the world.

Wendy estimated the change occurred fully around 2223 or so. What remained of humanity were slave-like creatures, aided and controlled by the ruling artificial intelligence. For centuries, they tried to live forever and now that they could, now that those who remained were, they all just wanted to die.

Wendy also gleaned from her travels through history that the closest anyone ever got to finding the answers before the machines made those answers moot, was a trio of researchers in the 20th century. The machines knew that The Egg Queen was real, but they were certain it no longer mattered. No human left on earth was human enough anymore to be fixed organically.

This is when Wendy realized she was a God.

She was the God of Time, a spiritual sister to The Egg Queen. Or perhaps, “mother” is a better description. Because without Wendy’s manipulation of history, The Egg Queen would have never been born.

•••

My dad, Otto Zimmerman née Truman Sky, had been hit in the fleshy part of the thigh with a bullet. He was bleeding badly.

“Come on, son,” Sheila said, embracing Jimmy and getting a handle on her Seeing Eye dog. “We’re done. We’re done with all of this.” They left the room, and me alone with a malfunctioning robot named Joe, my badly injured, elderly father and a newborn maybe who was potentially an otherworldly entity capable of delivering humanity the gift of immortality.

I didn’t know quite what to do.

I looked into the baby’s eyes. There were worlds inside those eyes, swirling, every color imaginable. Something was happening. Her skin seemed to bubble and glow all over her body now, and the sound she emitted grew louder. I felt compelled to reach out but as I did, something blocked me, something like an electrical field. The bellow continued to enhance in volume until it was deafening. When the sound became unbearable, the entire room flashed with white. It felt as though I died briefly and maybe I did. When I could see reality again, the baby was gone. The Egg Queen had disappeared.

Her parents, Alecia and Alexander, were deader than dead. I thought briefly about leaving old Otto to the same fate, and going upstairs to catch the hockey game. But you only got one dad in this life. I scooped him up into my arms.

“I’m gonna get you some help,” I said. “But you’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”

I took him to the hospital where they performed surgery to remove the bullet in his leg. The next day I sat next to his hospital bed and he explained it all. The large man named Jimmy was in fact the infamous Clarkson Maxx. He had raised him like a son for most of his life. I felt oddly jealous. Not only that, but he was indeed a pro German hockey player. He had assumed the identity of Otto Zimmerman and was one of those most useful role players on the Fischtown Pinguin roster. Truman, the real Otto, secured a position as team personnel consultant. They had a real father-son relationship centered around the glory of the puck. I grew even more jealous.

“The anti-aging stuff is off the charts here,“ he said. “He was able to assume my original identity. I was, after all, born in this country. I have dual citizenship. It really felt like I'd come full circle. In a way, I wasn't really lying to Alecia. I was playing ice hockey professionally. Through my boy.“

He spoke of his long-time scientific partnership with a man named Gerald Wear, the robotic robin. About how they would plot to get Jimmy/Clarkson/Otto to impregnate his own sister, Joan Jane Marbles.

“It was, per our agreement, such that I would track the boy and he the girl. We arranged for the 'Truman Sky' alias in case there was any heat on my end. There were curious circumstances surrounding the upbringing of the boy, let's say. So I had a lot on my plate, securing the gig at Raritan Valley whilst forging an entire history for the would-be Professor Sky not withstanding.

“And then Gerald soured, abruptly, on the whole project. Perhaps because of his health, which was failing him. More likely a spat of professional jealousy. I, of course, was the sire, the stud, and I'm sure at times it felt like Gerald was little more than my secretary.

“This was late April, 1996. Suddenly, I was in charge of supervising the lives of two toddlers, living a thousand miles apart. And, making matters worse, by the end of the year, Clarkson's mom was completely out of the picture. She'd been blinded and couldn't care for him anymore. She needed full-time care herself. I'm not sure where she wound up. Frankly, she was a liability before the whole mess with her eyes. Her family had disowned her and the boy fell into the arms of the state. He bounced around foster families for a few years before I was able to wrangle him away. It was a complicated affair to say the least.

“Of course, that was her… Shiela. The blind woman who saved our lives. Her connection to Gerald, to all of this is, well, unclear at this juncture.

“Anyway, needless to say, with all that was going on, I did a poor job connecting to Joan Jane. At the end, it felt like she was onboard. But I'd never really hooked her. The truth is I have no idea what became of her or the baby. It's unlikely that the baby, given what we've learned today, was The Egg Queen. That's if she was really even born at all. But maybe we'll never know. I don't have a good feeling about any of it. It might be my greatest sadness. She'd be turning five soon. Wendy I think they named her, or claimed to have.”

“The Target murder squad?” I asked.

“Yes, the Target Corp. Death Squad. Target, you know, like the department store? Well, for decades their Board of Directors have been doubling as a super-secret agency specializing in the outer reaches of disruptive science. They have their meddling fingers in every futurist idea imaginable. Frankly, we should blow up that building in Minneapolis if you ask me. But that’s neither here nor there.”

He continued with the explanation.

“So I made it happen. I won't get into the particulars but it happened. Got Joan Jane enrolled up there in Jersey and…“ He trailed off. I didn't want to know the details.

“She went back to Florida. She was on drugs. I didn't have the strength or capacity to… contain her. It wasn't like the time before…

“And so I was grooming Alecia for the first half of another go at it in when, well… not to be crass but my dick stopped working. I felt it was time to retire. Let Jimmy and I live out some dreams, live in peace. Give up the quest.

“But you and Alecia wouldn't leave me be. We know part of the story of why that is now.“

Abruptly, a bulbous old man shuffled into the hospital room. He looked even older than my dad, a fat and grizzled, waddling thing.

“Ah, Mule,” Otto said. “Mule, meet my son, Julio.” I reached out to shake his hand but he ignored me.

“Are you dead?” He asked.

“Well, your brother sure tried,” my dad told him.

Apparently, this was Gerald's brother, Michael who was nicknamed Mule on account of his being developmentally challenged.

“Gerald, on the surface, was very affable. But he always treated his brother like shit. I've had to look out for him. Especially after we thought he'd died of lung cancer. That was back in, oh… 2006?“ Mule took a seat in the corner of the hospital room and grunted.

It felt like there was still many more questions than answers, not to mention what happened to the magical baby, but I could tell my father was growing tired. I left to go for a walk. My father had Mule read him the game recap from the previous night. He struggled with the words, and I left before he got out the first full sentence.

They'd defeated the Polar Bears by a score of 2-1. They dedicated the victory to Otto Zimmerman, who had been the victim of a brutal and mysterious attack before the game. The strange story was currently sweeping the country, and the world. The hospital was flocked with press. Jimmy was being treated on the same floor as my father. It was only a matter of time before they’d connect the dots of the strange double homicide below the ice to Jimmy’s assault and then to dad and me.

From the best I could tell gleaning a German newspaper in the hospital lobby, the murder of Alecia and Alexander in the arena’s catacombs was not yet public knowledge. That was good. That gave me some more time. I needed to find some chewing tobacco to clear my head.

Outside the hospital, smoking a cigarette on a bench next to her Seeing Eye dog, I saw Sheila. I wasn’t sure how to approach a blind woman, never-mind a potentially uzi-toting killer one. But she had saved my life, and manners are manners. “Excuse me, m’am,” I said.

“Who is that? Julio?” She asked.

“Yes, how did––“

“I never forget a voice. I’ve been blind a long time now, my friend. Sit,” she instructed, patting the bench. “Want a smoke?”

“More of a chew-man myself,” I told her.

“I picked this up when my husband died. Or when he transitioned. He loved to smoke.” She let out a large, fulfilling plume of cigarette breath. “Hard to smoke when you’re a robot bird, though.”

JANUARY 20th, 2006

The large rodent, which was a capybara, identified herself as Phyl. She had been uploaded into the body of the animal, itself a robot, just a few months earlier. In her mouth she held the flash drive containing the essence of Gerald. She was speaking to a grief-stricken Shiela, who was in shock, mourning the death of her late husband in the one of the backrooms of the Conejo Mountain Funeral Home, Memorial Park & Crematory. She did not know the voice she was speaking to was a capybara. In fact, she thought it was a human. Under the guise of the man who had brought her to California in the first place, she explained that she was an old scientist friend of Gerald’s, named “Phil.” She wasn’t totally lying.

“It’s to our benefit that the wife is blind,” she’d told the android handler some three weeks earlier on their way to the Wear household in Malibu. “I’ll lower my voice’s tone in the audio settings so that I can do the talking.”

Shiela was onboard. She’d been onboard since Gerald reached out to her over a decade earlier with a plot to double-cross the man who had led her down the dark path her life had taken, Otto Zimmerman. Then they fell in love.

Everything about the plan was completely insane, not to mention totally disgusting and morally abhorrent. But her life had already been so twisted. If this last, massively fucked-up event could “cure death,” as Gerald claimed, then perhaps it would be worth it.

The one thing Shiela and Gerald fought over was her insistence on reconnecting to Jimmy. A few years earlier, Shiela had made contact and with the boy, her son, and was trying to be a part of his life again. Abandoning him was her greatest regret. Gerald was furious, worried it could derail the entire venture. But now, he was gone. While Phyl, the oddly cold and feminine voice, explained that he would be returning shortly.

“But there’s a catch,” Phyl the capybara admitted. “He can’t come back as… well, he won’t be a human being.”

“What do you mean?” Shiela questioned. “I thought he was going to be, like, half-man, half-machine?”

“He has to come back as an animal,” she explained. “That’s… the catch.”

•••

I wound up bumming a cigarette from Shiela, unsure of the quality and availability of German chewing tobacco. What a story she’d told me. I walked down to the Weser River to clear my head. The nicotine blast wasn’t as strong as a good wad of chew but it still felt nice.

My phone vibrated. It was a text from Joe Marbles. It read, “Julio, please call me if you can. I think you might be in trouble. I heard you woke up.”

He was right about being in trouble but that last part… I had no idea. Also, I thought he was a deceased android currently in the possession of German police. I called him back right away.

“Joe?” I said. “Is it really you?”

“Julio! Yes. You’re alive. Thank god. I really thought you might be dead.”

“Why?” I didn’t know how to go about this. It sure sounded like Joe but was Joe ever really alive himself? “What… where are you, buddy?”

“I’m in Branchburg. I’m a T.A. in the E.S. now,” he told me. “You sound… great. Where are you? When did you come to? The hospital wouldn’t tell me anything. Just that you’d been discharged. I’ve been really worried. I finally got this new number Melinda. She’s really worried too.”

“What hospital? Joe, I’m sorry. Melinda? What are you talking about?” It was clear this Joe had some answers but I didn’t know how to ask the question.

“Look,” he said. “Where are you?”

“Joe!” I exclaimed. “I’m in fucking Germany for god’s sake. Please, just tell me what happened. I’m… I’m not myself. I don’t look like myself. So much strangeness has occurred. I don’t… I don’t really know where to begin.”

“Germany? Well, okay…” Joe paused. “You know you were in a coma, right? For three years…”

This was news to me. I hadn’t known I was in a coma for three years.

“No,” I said. “What… what happened? Why was I in a coma?”

“Penny,” he replied. “Melinda’s old Rott? She mauled you something fierce. Totally ripped off your face. They reconstructed it during your coma. She had started to eat your brains, too. That’s why you were in a coma… brain damage.”

“Fuck,” I said, touching my face. “Fuck me. Is that… Oh my god, I remember now. That night after the bar. She wasn’t wearing her Scream mask…”

“They put her down, obviously. She’s dead now,” Joe said. “Melinda felt horrible, felt like she was somehow responsible. She came almost everyday to the hospital with Leigh. She really––“

“Leigh?”

“Yeah, Leigh…” Joe paused. “Shit, you don’t even… That… Leigh. Your… Julio, Leigh is your daughter. Melinda’s and your daughter…”

I was a daddy. I’d forgotten. I started to weep a little bit. I didn’t even know what she looked like.

“I’m so sorry, Julio,” Joe said. “We hadn’t known you’d married Alecia over the summer. She tried to freeze us out, but we––“

“I never married Alecia,” I interjected. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“She had the documents,” he told me. “Marriage certificate and everything. It was from… the summer before. August, I think. Right after your divorce. She was in total control. When you came to, she had you discharged almost immediately. We didn’t even get a chance to see you. Melinda was so distraught. She still is. She thinks this is all her fault. She’s had a hard time trusting anybody, including me. That’s why it took so long for me to get this number for you. Alecia was only legally obligated to give it to her because of Leigh. It’s been a tough go of it… for everybody.”

It was starting to come together. Clearly, Alecia had forged the documents and duped me into thinking no amount of time had passed when I awoke from the coma. Was the whole thing one giant, long con from the get-go? To get me over here and in place for the botched human sacrifice. No doubt. And clearly she had played my affinity for Joe as well, what with the creation of bad robot Joe.

“Thank you, Joe,” I said. He truly was like a lost son to me, even if a robot version of him tried to slit my father’s neck. “This info has been invaluable. And I have a lot to share with you,” I told him, verbally winking.

“The Egg Queen?”

“Bingo,” I said. “But I can’t discuss it over the phone. How quickly can you fly out to Germany? I’m in Bremerhaven.”

SEPTEMBER 21st, 1988

For Wendy, and anyone really, time travel wasn’t just as easy as sticking one’s head into their own vagina. No, it took concentration and, more importantly, a spiritual connection to the cosmic glue which held the universe and the very essence of reality together. And Wendy was a pro.

By her best estimation, she had been jumping through time for over 5,000 years. Of course, time was completely subjective to her existence as the God of Time, so this figure is largely arbitrary. But when she manifested in Shinjuku, Tokyo, in the late 80s, it’s safe to say she was an expert on the matter.

Phylicia Altschul was closing in on retirement. She was an old lady now. She had come as close as anyone to fixing “the human problem” in both the fields of biology: The Egg Queen, and computer science: artificial intelligence, A.I.

She was perfect.

Wendy found her reading in the atrium of her cottage near the university. She startled her.

“Please,” she said. “Don’t be alarmed.”

“Who are you?” Phyl, perplexed at this sudden appearance of an American teenager in her Japanese house, an intruder. One of the other confirmations that she was, in fact, a God, was that she had stopped aging upon beginning her travels through time. She was permanently sixteen, which often helped in cases like this of necessary intrusion.

“It’s okay, Phyl. I’m here to help. You’re going to want to hear what I have to say.”

They went down to the robotics lab at Waseda University and Wendy got to work.

“You will technically be dying, yes,” she said. “I will have to kill you. It will be painless, I can assure.” Wendy had transported various, pocket-sized computers and was furiously typing codes into all of them. Phyl was not necessarily certain she was a god, but she believed her truly to be from or of the future. She watched in awe at the technology.

“There is just one catch?” Wendy said, stopping momentarily to look at Phyl.

“What’s that?”

“You have to come back as an animal.”

“An animal? Why?”

Wendy sighed. She knew this would be the hardest part to explain. While she wasn’t totally sure and couldn’t prove it, she believed that the future machines had also cracked the time-space continuum. She believed there could be nanobots observing parts of, or all of human history. To be on the safe side, she would have to transform Phyl into a robot animal.

In reality, the future A.I. was not capable of time travel. They never had to have been animals in the first place. Even Gods make mistake.

Phyl was, needless to say, not pleased with this development. But she ultimately decided on the capybara as that was her favorite animal to observe back in the Philippines. Wendy had attempted to persuade her to choose a smaller animal like a bird because, ironically, it would take less time to create.

This would be the near identical spiel Phyl would deliver to Gerald on his deathbed, and then to his wife Shiela. After her transition, Wendy spent months in secret training her on the art so she could fashion androids herself in the future.

Or the past.

They became quite good friends over this period. When it was time to depart, they were both very sad.

“What will you do now?” Phyl the capybara asked. “Travel through time, I guess.”

“Yes,” Wendy replied. “I love the dinosaurs. I’ll probably go there now.” Even though her eyes were robot animal eyes and not human eyes, and even though Wendy herself was more God than human, she could sense the true and utter despair which their parting ways was unloading on Phyl. “Hold on,” she said. “I have an idea.”a

She fashioned a computer back at the lab for the specific purposes of sharing her whereabouts and activity. “Here,” she said, handing the device to Phyl, who put in the jaws of his her large rodent mouth. It was essentially a smartwatch. “This will automatically broadcast where I am and what I’m doing. Does it fit your android rodent wrist?”

“Like a glove,” Phyl responded, smiling. And with that, Wendy the God of Time inserted her head into her vagina and was gone.

Phyl waited out the years, per their plan. She concocted and built the android handler, who went by the name Tom Carson. They moved back to America, where Tom Carson became an animal expert and took Phyl the capybara to grade schools for small assemblies for most of the 1990s. It was a weird life: not speaking and being repeatedly touched by children. But they needed a cover. The years went by.

Tom Carson and Phyl made it to California by the end of 2005, per their plan, and reached out to Gerald Wear who would be die on January 16th, early the next year, in Malibu.

It went about as smoothy as one could expect. Gerald was uploaded into the body of an robotic robin after his death. He seemed to be “all there,” as Phyl described.

But it was during the moment of his death, his transition, when the final puzzle piece slid into view. In a flash, in the very moment the change occurred, Gerald had a vision. He saw a baby being born and in the background something else: death. A sacrifice to be exact. He described it later to Phyl and Shiela as the sacrifice of a father and son.

Phyl was extremely weary, but Gerald was adamant that in order to “activate” The Egg Queen they would need to kill a father and son at the exact moment of birth. What was even more concerning was Gerald’s insistence that this father-son duo be Otto, his old partner, and Otto’s firstborn, Julio McManus, who didn’t even know who his biological father was.

The years went on. Shiela and Gerald’s twins, Alecia and Alexander, grew up. Gerald was in charge of organizing the plot to get Otto and Julio together at the right time, and “Aunt Phyl the capybara” was in charge of delicately bringing the siblings together in time for the most unholy act. It wouldn’t be easy, but they both agreed that a rodent explaining it was somehow better than a bird.

Then, in 2010, tragedy struck. Every morning Phyl would wake up from a computer sleep and check her wrist to see where Wendy was. It was her most favorite thing to do in the world. Sure, life was intriguing: living in the body of an android animal in a century you had no business seeing. But Phyl always wanted more. She was envious and in awe of Wendy, and their time together so many years earlier, however brief, was the best she ever had.

She glanced at the blue text on the screen on the device on her wrist, and it read, “TRANSMISSION ENDED. HOST EATEN BY A DINOSAUR. 161.1 Ma - 0616:39.” Phyl was devastated. She thought about the timestamp. 161 million years ago. She was incapable of crying, and for the first time she saw this as a design flaw.

Gerald’s response to the news of Wendy’s death was predictably cold. Whereas he should’ve owed her, a God, everything he had, his life, his entire existence, he felt an odd obligation that truly miffed him. Her presence in the world, in whichever point in time, was a constant burden. The fact that she might return and want something was on Gerald’s mind daily. And he resented Phyl, his former mentor, for her blind adoration.

Phyl was truly a wreck, and in Gerald’s robot robin eyes: a liability. He knew what had to be done.

He met in secret with his daughter, Alecia, whom he knew was capable of carrying out the deed. Alexander had always been the softer twin, and he could never know what was about to happen. It would be their only secret, forever until their deaths.

On the eve of Alecia’s Sweet 16, she asked Phyl to come along to the venue Shiela had rented to help decorate.

“Wendy was forever sixteen, right?” Alecia asked, deviously.

Again, Phyl wanted more than nothing to shed tears from her manufactured, capybara eyeballs. But that was not an option. “That’s right,” she said, without affect.

“I bet you miss her, don’t you?” Alecia was just taunting her now. “Anyway, can you go in the walk-in freezer and check on the ice cream cake?”

Phyl did as she was asked and Alecia promptly locked the door behind her. The Sweet 16 venue was Moongazer’s, a Wear Family Property. They had never scheduled a party in the first place. In fact, Shiela went ahead and cleared the schedule for the next two weeks, about the exact amount of time it would take freeze-out and permanently damage Phyl's software.

It would be a long, cruel death. Much different than the first one Phylicia had to endure.

She looked at her wristband computer and wondered if its mechanisms would cease to function before her's. It didn't matter. She closed her eyes.

•••

I sat and stared at the Weser. It was beautiful. I thought about my childhood. I knew I was adopted. I had never tried to look for my real parents. My mom and dad were good people, a former Mexican prostitute and an Irish drunk. Maybe not the best of lives, but I felt like I was lucky.

I thought about Truman or Otto or whoever he was… dad. Did I look like him? Well, not now since I had a different face. But had I?

And why did they choose this look for me now? So utterly different than it had been. Another mystery.

I put out Shiela’s cigarette and thew it into the river. I loved littering about as much as I loved chili dogs, chewing tobacco and even ice hockey. But it was a part of my life I kept hidden. Often, early in my relationship with Melinda, I would sneak out late at night to empty some of our trash onto the streets of New Jersey. I did this under the guise of taking Penny the Rottweiler on a walk.

I thought about Penny and how if we hadn’t gotten her that nose job, none of this might have ever happened. And now that dog was dead. Poor Penny.

I thought my dad back in the hospital with that Mule fellow, desperately trying to read aloud hockey recaps with the capacity of a dumb child’s mind.

I thought about Melinda and my daughter Leigh who were real. They were real people living in New Jersey, a place I could never return to.

I thought about Joe, sweet Joey, the son I never had. I hoped he would never find out the truth about his poor sister.

I thought about Alecia and “Alexander” and how entirely screwed up they were, and how it probably wasn’t their fault.

And then I thought about my long-lost brother in Montana. He didn’t know about any of this. I had to find him, not to tell him but to not tell him. He was my last chance of escaping this sick world and slipping into something pure.

I had to meet him: Ed.

But first, I went back to the hotel to write all this down. That’s where I am now, the beautiful Atlantic Hotel here in Bremerhaven, which I highly recommend. And so my final thoughts on The Egg Queen that I’d like to share with you all is that she isn’t real. She never was. Everything I saw was just a constructed reality. Sure, it “physically happened” and “I was there,” but it wasn’t mine. None of it was mine. You can live a million years in this life and if you don’t own your actions, everyday, hour to hour, what good are they. You’re just an actor in someone else’s script.

I hit save and close my laptop. I rub my eyes. I look around the hotel room. I go to the microwave and take out my wallet.

Oh no, I need to book flights. I shouldn't have closed my laptop just then after writing all that stuff down. I open my laptop again. Anaconda, Montana is very far away. I need to fly to Frankfurt first, then to Seattle, then… my new home. I no longer have Alecia’s connection to wads of cash. She’s dead.

Still, a one-way ticket is only gonna cost around $650. That feels like a good deal. I’ll need to rent a car when I land in Bozeman, Montana. It’s two hours from there to Anaconda. What if Ed doesn’t live there anymore? What if Ed’s dead?

My tube socks are loose because I like them like that. I pat the skin around my ankle. My hand fits inside the looseness.

I've made it this far. Now it's time to write my own story.

I'm surprised apps haven't changed more in the three years I was in a coma. Uber looks the same. Or maybe I don't remember how it looked before. Graphic design is different than, for example, how someone's face looks. I call an Uber.

I feel free inside the car, a Ford. Hello, American car. I am an American. I don't speak to the driver. I'm sure he knows. Must be the tube socks, or the ignorance.

The Bremen airport is small. I wonder if it is smaller than the one I'm heading to in Bozeman. Every building, every structure, anything, is either bigger or smaller than every other thing. When I get to the Bozeman I will say a prayer for every airport in the world. I won't need to leave Anaconda when I get there. I will live inside the belly of that snake until the end of my natural life.

Snake. Snakes lay eggs.

I wonder how I got the job at R.V.C.C. in the first place. Sure, I was an alum but I didn't have a science background, not too mention any teaching experience on any level. How much of my life had been dictated by the result of meddlesome, outside forces?

I tried not to think about eggs.

The flight to Frankfurt is a short one, the shortest air portion of the trip. I wonder if Joe Marbles is really heading this way. I hope not, but I'm not going to reach out either way. He's on his own now. Like me.

No one in Germany, maybe no one in all of Europe, is heading to Anaconda, Montana right now. My plan is going swimmingly. I'm a real original, American boy. And I'm coming home to make good.

The lady next to me has been glancing in my direction quite a lot. She finally speaks, and in perfect English she says, “You're American, aren't you?“

“As the crow flies,“ I say, a bit flirtatiously.

“Oh I just knew it. Where are you heading? Oh! That is… if you don't mind me asking?“

“No, not at all,“ I tell her. “The great state of Montana. Visiting my brother.“

“Stop!“ She shouts. “Me too! Unbelievable. It really is. You looked like a Montanan, if I may add. Where in Big Sky Country are you headed?“

“Anaconda,“ I say. She hits my arm below the shoulder, and hard.

“No! No you are not! That's where I'm heading!“

I feel dejected. My original plot had hit a snag and I still have two more planes to board.

“What are the odds,“ I say, stalely.

“I do not know the odds but maybe I know your brother? Heck, maybe I even know… you?“

“Well, no,“ I reply. “Not me for sure. I mean, I've never been there. Never been out west actually.“

“Oh, you'll love it. It's so beautiful. What's your brother's name?“

I didn't know his last name. His name is Ed. If I just say that his name is Ed then this lady is going to ask what his last name is. And then I'm going to have to tell her that I don't know what my brother's last name. But this is my story so I have to live with the lines. Even if they're still, somehow, predictable. “Ed. His name is Ed. He sells insurance.“

“Ed Berry? Well, stop right there.“ She, again, hits me on the arm. “He's married to my second cousin Janice. We're… we're practically related!“ The lady smiles and sighs. “You actually never knew he had a brother…“

She wants more from me but I'm not sure what to give. “We've never met. It's complicated,“ I tell her.

“Okay,“ she answered, satisfied. “Family stuff. I get it. Well, still… small world, right?“

“Right.“

She then proceeds to pull out a tablet and types word after word into various app. Swiping here and tapping there. She begins salivating. The saliva drips onto the tablet and it begins to smoke. She's escorted into first class, through the curtain. I never see her again.

When I get to Bozeman I'm going to throw all my electronics in the toilet. I'm going to jam my laptop in the back part of the toilet, under the lid, and I'm going to throw my phone into the water where the piss and shit go. I'll try my best to flush it down the hole. Maybe it will go down the drain, maybe not.

This plane lands.

The Frankfurt airport is busy. It's the day after Christmas now. Of course it's busy.

Frankfurt to Seattle is long. Impossibly so. I think it might rewind to Christmas Day by the time we land. I buy a notebook and pen before boarding. Maybe the flight will be long enough for me to invent a new language, or at least a new alphabet. Yes, I should start there.

The thing about inventing a new alphabet, I decide, is that it's impossible. It's slightly less impossible than flying from Germany to Washington state and that is why I must do it. I put the pen to paper and think about what my “A“ is going to look like. I let my fingers do the work as my mind rests.

The man in the seat next to me guffaws. “That's not a new alphabet,“ he says, chuckling. “Boy. That's a cypher.“

He's right. I tell him that I knew that all along, which I did. And I tell him that the lie is okay because the lie is my own. He appreciates my candor. His name is Dennis. He's heading, eventually, to a suburb of Vancouver, Washington. I tell him I didn't know there was anything besides the Vancouver in Canada, home of the National Hockey League's very own Canucks.

“There's at least two of everything already on this damn planet. So don't worry about creating anything new,“ he tells me. Dennis goes to the bathroom and he never comes back. Eventually another man takes his seat. This man looks like Dennis, only smaller.

“Dennis?“ I say. The man looks at me like he doesn't speak my language. He pulls out a doll and begins combing its hair with a tiny brush. The doll's skin is yellow and bright, a very similar hue to that of The…

I try not to think about Her. The trying not to think is hard.

I try to sleep but all the trying not to think only leads to more thinking, powerful thoughts. The best thoughts, I think. And I think I don't need sleep only these most powerful thoughts. What a terrific fuel! We could fly to Seattle then around the whole globe again without stopping, just for fun, if we could harvest this fuel. If only we could.

The new Dennis is brushing his doll's hair so vigorously that a flight attendant asks him to stop. She's speaking French but I believe the gist is he's freaking out the other passengers. Let him be. That's my take on this hair-brushing situation.

The entire plane begins humming “Pop Goes the Weasel,“ even new Dennis. It's unsettling. I feel like we're going to crash. But we don't crash. Not now. And not now either. We continue to advance through the clouds high up in the sky. We still haven't crashed when the humming finally stops.

It's now definitely Christmas Day again. I think, perhaps we have flown around the globe a few times. Perhaps my thinking about the new kind of fuel manifested itself into reality. We have unwound time. The entire flight crew is dressed like Santa and the original Dennis is back, chuckling his familiar chuckle, and… Hey! I'll be damned it it isn't a very “St. Nick”-variety chuckle at that. The sound of it tickles my ears, which are my original ears. Penny the Rott did not maul my ears. And I laugh too.

We land in Seattle at the crack of dawn on Christmas morning. I thank Dennis for lightening the mood. “L'ambiance a toujours été sans poids,” he says. “La perception de son allumage est elle-même la plus grande farce humaine jamais jouée.” I don't understand a word.

He reaches into his pocket and hands me the yellow doll. Its hair is completely gone. “Here ya go!“ Dennis says, slapping me in the same place the lady from Montana did. “It's a boy now!“

I put the doll in my bag and tell him thanks.

I walk through the terminal in the Seattle-Tacoma Airport, affectionately called Sea-Tac. I think about a literal “sea tack” and how useless it would be to try to pin anything up underwater. It’s three hours till my flight to Bozeman.

I walk into the men's bathroom and rip out all the pages containing the alphabet I'd made, the cypher. I get them wet and stick them on the bathroom mirror. The ink is running a little but it's still legible. To the layman' eyes, I'm not sure it doesn't just look like scribble. But it doesn't matter. It exists. It houses a language in code, in story, even if the old person to see it as an airport janitor before they throw it in the trash.

I like airport terminals, each one so different yet essentially the same. There's no escape. You can only live the life that offered by the garish choices set in front of you. You're temporarily living inside a commercial. Everything is bland and unwanted, yet people are either incredibly happy or sad. There are two in-betweens and the limited, horrible choices act as the perfect buffer for this swirling, ever-changing bundle of collective emotions.

I think I'll throw my wallet away when I get too Bozeman, as well. After I rent a car. Maybe I'll find some carrion on the side of the road and stuff it in the animal guts. I don't want to be me anymore. And I'm more than halfway there.

As I board the small plane to Bozeman, I wonder who'll be sitting next to me this time. I take out the book I bought, a non-fiction account of the making of a fictional movie, not wanting to talk to anyone. I haven't slept in days.

A young woman enters the cabin with a big dog in tow, a Rottweiler. They stop at my isle and damn if this beast doesn't look just like Penny. That is, if the nose job had taken. “Good grief,“ I mutter under my breath.

“I'm sorry,“ the lady says. “This is my therapy dog, Jebediah. They instructed me that the seat next to you is open. I hope he doesn't get in the way.“

“It's fine,“ I say. “As long as he doesn't bite.“

“Oh no, he's friendly.“ Old Jeb was basically too big for the isle and inserted himself right next to me, Julio George McManus, previously the owner of this flight's only empty seat. Just my luck.

“Hey.“ The dog is speaking to me.

“Not another talking robot animal. I can't take it.“

“Well, half a bingo, friend,“ Jeb says. “I'm not a robot.“

I was clearly delirious. I had finally lost my mind.

“Well,“ I say, embracing this insanity head-on. “What do you want?“

“Me? Oh, nothing… Maybe a little friendly chat if you're up for it, but I don't want to be any trouble.“

“No,“ I say. “It's fine. I'm sorry. Just been a weird couple weeks, months. Years, actually. Come to think of it. You look like a friend of mine… well, a dog I used to know.“

“Get outta town. That right?”

“Yeah, her name was Penny.”

“You saying I look a girl, fool?”

“Well, no… it’s just–“

“Relax! I’m fucking with you,” Jeb the Rott says. “This plane is definitely crashing.”

There is a huge flash and crunching sounds. I wake up from a dream. The young woman is looking at me with a meek yet concerned facial expression. “Excuse me,” she says. “You were talking to my therapy dog in your sleep. Could you please not do that? It’s hard enough being a therapy dog…” I don’t know what she means by that.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” I say, wiping some drool from my lips. We’re almost to Bozeman. The dog is looking at me. I don’t want to make life harder on a therapy dog. She’s right about that.

The car I rent in Bozeman is a navy blue Hyundai Accent. The airport is north of Yellowstone National Park by about the same distance as Anaconda, to the west.

I head west on what I discover is the first day of the new year, 2018. The years and days seem less important than ever before. It's morning, beautiful and cold. That's all I know for sure.

I think about how I will find my brother, Ed, when I get to Anaconda. There are only 9,000 inhabitants. How many of them could be insurance salesmen named Ed?

The ride is a good two hours and very flat. I scan the radio repeatedly but I only pick up static. I flip to AM and I finally get a clear signal. The man talking is upset. “We're all going to hell!“ He screams. I leave the station on and listen. He recites from the Book of Jeremiah with yelling. “Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart. I appointed you as a prophet to the nations,” he yells. As the road gets flatter, so does the man's tone. By the time I get to the outer limits, he's completely calm. “They will fight against you but will not overcome you, for I am with you and will rescue you,” the man says in a whisper. ”Good luck out there.“ It feels like he's speaking to only me.

I pull up to a miniature golf course called Goosetown Mini-Golf. Despite the holiday and weather, business is booming. The cold, dry sunshine is actually perfect putt-putt weather I decide, disembarking the Accent. This feels like the perfect place to ask around about “Ed the insurance salesman, father of three and my twin brother.“

The teenage girl working the counter looks at me with a glum, confused expression. “You're not coming in here to play miniature golf alone on New Year's Day, are you?“ Her face is saying.

“Hi,“ she says.

“Hello,“ I say, taking a deep breath. “This is a bit of an odd… request. But I'm looking for a man named Ed. Insurance salesman?“ Her face is blank now. “He lives here in Anaconda. Maybe I can ask around?“ I request, gesturing towards the hordes of families and groups shuffling around the course outside.

“Hmmm,“ she replies. “Actually my boss, the owner… He might be able to help better,“ she tells me. “His name is Ed too.“

She goes into an adjoining room and returns trailing a man who looks like me, I think. Well, what I looked like before my face was reconstructed while I was in a coma.

“Hi,“ the man says. “I'm Ed, how can I help you?“

I'm taken aback. His voice sounds like my voice but maybe not my real voice: the voice as it sounds inside my head, conjuring and dictating all of the stories and events, original or otherwise.

“Hi,“ I say, taking his hand. I imagine the hand as the hand of a fetus and touching that hand inside the same womb. The womb of our mother. Who is she?

“Hi,“ he says again. “Is everything alright? Justine says you're looking for someone?“

“Yes,“ I say, composing myself. “Yes, I am. I'm sorry… this is pretty random.“

“It's okay,“ Ed replies.

“I don't even have a last name. But I'm looking for someone also naned Ed. He's an insurance salesman? I'm sorry. This is probably a shot in the dark.“

Ed's face goes pinkish before answering. His mouth contorts. “I… used to sell insurance actually.“ There's a lengthy pause with some stuttering. “Maybe you're… looking for me?“ He giggles nervously.

“Well, I'm not sure,“ I say. “Do you have three kids and happen to have been born on May 6th, 1981?“

Ed's face goes from pink to gray. The shape of his nervous mouth shifts into an agitated, hyper-aware one.

“Who…“ He looks at Justine before continuing. “Let's talk in my office.“

He gently pats my elbow and looks at Justine as if to say everything's alright. I follow him into the other room and then through another door which leads outside. We maze our way around the mini-golf course. Big, fake smiles are plastered on our faces.

We get to another small house which is attached to the special 19th hole. The bonus, “win a free game“ hole has been made up to look like a chicken coop. There is a large egg on top which appears as if it would glow if someone were able to get a hole-in-one. Tiny mechanical chickens, bobbing up and down, are manning the gap between the incline of the green ramp and the actual hole, which is maybe twice the size of a regular one. It looks very hard but certainly not impossible.

Inside the office, Ed immediately asks me to take a seat. He does the same behind an old desk. “Who are you? And how do you know all that stuff?“ He stops to swallow, his mouth so obviously dry. “What's up?“

“I'm sorry,“ I tell him. “I didn't mean to alarm you. I didn't think I'd find you… here,“ I say. “But I… well, I have reason to believe we might be related.“ I stop to gauge his reaction. He seems as confused as before. “You're adopted, right?“

“No!“ He exclaimed. “Certainly not. I'm… Who told you that?“

“The man who I have reason to believe is your… our father.“ Still, nothing. “I think we might be brothers, half-brothers.“

“This is…“ Ed fidgets and takes out his phone. “This is pretty nuts. I'm just… I'm real sorry, buddy. Looks like you were given some bad info. Maybe you can tell me who told you all that personal info? Maybe that would help. Because I did sell insurance around here, for many years. And I do have three kids. And, well, May 6th… Bingo.“

I scoff, happily. “That's my word… 'Bingo'. I say that a lot.“

“It's a pretty popular expression,“ Ed says dismissively. “Listen. Who told you all that stuff? Your… father? I can't help you if you don't give me a name.“

I struggle with how to continue. “It's complicated,“ I finally say. “I don't think any of his names will mean anything to you.“

“His names?“ Ed replies. He's growing more agitated. “I think—“

“Can you maybe contact your parents?“ I ask, cutting him off. “They might be—“

“My parents are dead, dude. Jesus Christ.“ He looks at me with daggers for eyes. “They died five years ago in a car crash. My biological parents.“ He stands up. “I think you better go.“

I feel utterly devastated. I sink my head in my hands and begin to weep. I can hear Ed sigh, loudly.

“Hey,“ he says, sighing again. “I'm sorry. I don't think I can help you. If you can't give me anymore information, I definitely can't help you.“ I look up and see Ed reaching into a small box on his desk. “Here,“ he says, handing me a slip of paper. “A free game, on me. Maybe clear your head and then we can talk some more if you think of anything that might help. What do you say?“

I look at the piece of paper. It has the Goosetown Mini-Golf logo on it and it reads “Complimentary Free Game, good for one player.“ At the bottom is a note that it never expires.

“It's a beautiful day for it,“ Ed says. “Go to the front building and Justine will hook you up with a putter and a ball.“

“Okay,“ I say, wiping my face. “Sure. Why not?“ I force out a bit of laughter. Ed looks at me with pity of goodwill.

“Great. Just knock on that door when you're done if you want to talk about this. Maybe tell me, you know, who told you his… tall tale.“

Perhaps the looming egg atop the 19th hole is keeping me around. Whatever weird synergy that might bring. But really, I've got no place else to go.

When I had thought about finding Ed before, I'd figured he would be aware of his status as an adopted person. I hadn’t really considered he'd never been told. That just seemed like a human scenario from the 1800s. And I couldn't consider the real alternative.

That maybe none of this was true. We weren't brothers. And the last few years…

“We were never properly introduced,” Ed says, opening the door for me.

“Oh, right. I’m Julio McManus,“ I tell him.

“Edward Herman.“ He shakes my hand a second time and now I can feel the thousands of miles in between our digits.

Next to the first hole is a sign explaining why Anaconda is nicknamed Goosetown. It reads, “In the early 1900s, saloons in this part of the East Anaconda neighborhood used to raffle off geese and turkeys.”

“Why not Turkeytown?” I wonder aloud. Each hole has a unique animal theme with a large papier-mâché goose obstacle planted in the middle of the first. Turkeys are, in fact, present as well: wooden cutouts of the bird act as border walls up the ramp on the first level of the fourth hole. The funnel which spits your ball down to a second, lower section is made out to be a horn of plenty. This hole has a Thanksgiving theme.

There are no mammals represented on the entire mini-golf layout: just reptiles and birds. This strikes me as odd, but I roll with it. I’m playing the game of my life. I’ve hit a hole-in-one on every single putt. By the time I get to the bonus 19th, I’m so in the zone that the world around me evaporates. I can only see angles and I can only feel the weight of the air around my wrists above where my hands are touching the rubber grip of the cheap club. I stare at the giant egg atop the chicken coop. I’ve conquered geese, turkeys, osprey, pigeons, bald eagles and more. Not to mention all the scaly friends: lizards, snakes, salamanders and the fifteen-foot croc whom I nimbly guided my ball across its back, among them. No one is paying me any mind. They are all completely unaware of the magical, historical performance I am about to complete. When I take my final swing, I won’t be thinking about Ed just a few steps away. And I won’t be thinking about any of the strange events which led me here. I won’t be thinking about anything. My mind will be completely blank, completely open.

I take the swing.

I hit the ball with enough velocity to clear the ramp. It narrowly avoids one of the bobbing, mechanical chickens and goes in the hole. Dead center. Another hole-in-one. Just as I’d imagined, the direct hit has triggered the large egg atop the coop. A light inside it begins to shine, rotating and blinking like a strobe. A siren blares. The light is yellow and bright. The sound is deafening. Its magnitude quickly increases until I’m forced to my knees. The sound and light, together, are eating me alive. I retreat into the darkness inside me. When everything feels blank, deleted, all quiet and black, I try to open my eyes. The blankness is replaced with another, different blankness. There are subtle gray outlines of the place I’d just inhabited but this is not that place. I hear the sound of something, not quite a voice. Maybe the voice of a human baby merged with the shrieks of an extinct animal. It subtly gets less and less muddled until I can make out words. It’s telling me, “Congratulations.” The world’s gray outlines begin to fill with color and the black erodes. The voice continues to say “Congratulations” over and over again. Eventually I’m standing in front of the 19th hole again. But the entire Goosetown Mini-Golf course is now empty. And the large egg is shattered, unrecognizable.

The voice returns, now crystal clear. It’s female and directly behind me. I turn around.

“You’ve found me,” she says. But her lips are not moving. She’s communicating this sound, this voice, directly to my brain, telepathically I assume. It’s a soothing, familiar voice. She’s a beautiful angel, literally glowing. I’ve found The Egg Queen.

She says we need to go the South Pole. It’s there where we’ll find the secret entrance to the center of the earth. “The earth is an egg,” she tells me. “Inside this egg is another egg. And this is the egg we’ll need to crack.” If anyone knows a thing or two about eggs it’s gotta be The Egg Queen. I nod my head, yes.

I wonder how we’ll get there, not quite ready for more international traveling. But, of course, The Egg Queen travels in style. Per command, I hold her around her waist, from behind, and she bursts into the air. The Pole is 9,000 miles from Anaconda. We’re there in what feels like seconds.

“We’re here,” The Egg Queen says. “Where all the meridians meet. This place exists outside of time, always.” I’m enamored by the vast ice and wonder why I don’t feel the cold, which must be incredible. I think about hockey. I see imaginary goals to my right and to my left. Twin Wayne Gretzky ghosts skate a perfect figure 8 around us and then score with the most beautiful slap-shots I’ve ever seen. The sound of their sticks striking the pucks cascades into each of my ears in perfect harmony. Everything is white. “Because time does not exist here, it is time.” She points toward the ground. There’s a hole.

“Goodbye,” I tell her. “And… thank you.” She leans in and kissed me softly on the forehead.

“Thank you. It was always meant to be you.”

I jump into the hole, leaving The Egg Queen behind on the surface of Antarctica. But I know she’s still with me, spiritually. She’s keeping me safe from the elements, this part of the earth which only exists to kill and to try to remind us.

The center of the earth is a fire. It is not happy when I finally reach the core. It spits hot lava and sprays flaming, gaseous vapors at me. But I am protected by Her energy. I am all glowing yellow. The heat and the fire cannot harm me, so they retreat. I see an egg. The space it exists in is not molten, but smoky and pink. I am inside of the womb of the center of the earth and I pick up the egg. It’s the size of a large watermelon. For some reason, I smell it. It is odorless. I look around but there’s nothing to crack it on. There’s no countertop edge, no side of any frying pan. I panic. I’m suddenly a force outside myself. I’m cracking the egg on myself, my torso. And then I become the egg itself. The egg is my body. I punch at my stomach. I punch at my stomach until it opens up and what is unleashed ascends and reenters the world, born again.

…

#literature #business

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cbshearer · 4 years

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Since shortly after release weekend, I’ve been corresponding with someone who worked closely on the production of TROS and works for one of the major companies I cannot disclose here. I have verified the source to my satisfaction. To protect the source, I am rewording what we spoke about over the last two weeks and am submitting it to you in bullet point format I have written based on what they told me. The TLDR is that they were upset with the final product of TROS and wanted to share their perspective on how it went down and where it went wrong.The leakers for TROS had an agenda and are tied to Disney directly. My source confessed that they have an agenda as well in that they struggle with ignoring what’s been happening to someone who they think doesn’t deserve it.JJ always treated everyone on and offset with respect so my source’s agenda is that what Disney has done to JJ and how much they screwed him over should be something people are at least aware of, whether you like him as a filmmaker or not.Disney was one of the studios who were in that Bad Robot bidding war last year. Disney never had much interest in BR as a company but they did in JJ because they saw WB (who JJ went with in the end) as a major threat.JJ is very successful at bringing franchises back like Mission Impossible, Star Trek and Star Wars. WB is struggling with DC and aside from Wonder Woman, DC is still seen as a bit of a joke in its current state by the GA.WB wants Abrams for some DC projects. My source said that this generation’s Star Wars is the MCU, and Marvel’s biggest threat is a well operational DC. They want to keep DC in the limbo that they’re in right now. Abrams jumpstarting that franchise with something like a successful, audience-pleasing Superman movie makes them nervous. Their goal is to make JJ look bad to potential investors/shareholders.My source mentioned this shortly after the premiere: “The TROS we saw last night was not the TROS we thought we worked on”.JJ was devastated and blindsided by this. He’s been feeling down over the last 6 months because of some of the ridiculous demands Disney had that changed his movie’s story. While the scenes were shot, a lot of the changes were made in post-production and the audio was rerecorded and altered. My source said they’ve never seen anything like this happen before. He’s the director and he wasn’t in the know about what they were doing behind his back.Apparently, JJ felt threatened over the month leading up to the premiere.Rian was never meant to do IX despite some rumors that he was.JJ was brought back by Iger, not KK. Disney insisted on more fan service, less controversy.JJs original agreement when he signed on was indicating he would have way more creative control than he did on TFA. It became evident this wasn’t the case only a couple of weeks into shooting when the trouble with meddling started.JJ wanted to do some scenes he thought were important but Disney shut it down citing budgetary reasons.May 2019: JJ argued that those scenes were crucial. He had to let go of one of the scenes. The other scene he insisted on was approved at first. He did reshoots and additional photography in July. The new scene was shot at BR in October.The “ending that will blow your mind” was a part of this. Older actors were included like Hayden, Ewan and Samuel and anyone who wasn’t animated. The force ghosts weren’t meant to be voices because they shot that footage on camera. The actors were in costumes. Rey was supposed to be surrounded by the force ghosts to serve as sort of a barrier between her and the Sith surrounding them.My source thinks but can’t 100% confirm that this is because of China. It’s an office talk of sorts. Some VFX people claimed they got a list of approved shades of blue they could use on the Luke force ghosts. Cutting this out was when the bad blood turned into a nightmare for JJ because the movie he was making was suddenly unrecognizable to him in almost every way.My source knows JJ well enough to know that he’s just not the yelling type but apparently in a meeting he yelled something along the lines of “Why don’t you just put ‘directed and written by Lucasfilm’ then?” My source wasn’t present for that exchange but knows some who were.Disney demanded they shoot some scenes that would have things in it for merchandise. “They fly now” is one of them. It’s also JJ’s least favorite scene. At a November screening of a 2:37 cut, he cringed, groaned and laughed when the scene was on.My source says that JJ was most likely not joking when he said “you’re right” in the interview where they asked him about TROS criticism.JJ’s original early November cut was 3 hours 2 minutes long.In January, JJ suggested that they turn this into two films. My source told me this well before Terrio mentioned it in an interview a couple of days ago. When Disney said no, JJ was content with making this 3 hours long.Over a period of 9 months JJ started realizing that one by one his ideas and whole scenes were being thrown out the window or entirely altered by people who have “no business meddling with the creatives”.They were not on the same page when it came to creative decisions and it became obvious that Disney had an agenda in addition to wanting to please shareholders. Disney could “afford messing up IX for the sake of the bigger picture” when it came to protecting things unrelated to IX.The cut JJ eventually and hesitantly agreed to in early December was 2:37 minutes long. It wasn’t the cut we saw which he wouldn’t have approved of (and which is 2:22 long). Apart from the force ghosts, there were other crucial and emotional scenes missing. The cut they released looked “chopped and taped back together with weak scotch tape” (JJ's words).The movie opened with Rey’s training. Her first scene with Rose was shortly after Rey damaged BB-8 during the training. Rose made a silly joke about how Poe is going to kill her for damaging BB-8. There was a moment where Rey took a minute to process what just happened when she saw that vision during training. She looked distressed and worried. The next scene was noise as the Falcon was landing and Rey runs over there. Those two women who kissed at the end were visible in this shot and they were holding hands. One of them ran towards the Falcon as it landed.Kylo on Mustafar scene was 2 mins longer. There was a moment where Kylo seemed a bit dizzy and his vision was shown as blurry for a second. Almost as if time half-stopped while everyone in the background was slow-mo fighting. Kylo hears Vader's breathing, then shakes his head and time goes back to moving at a normal pace and he jumps right back into the battle (the scene from the trailer where he knocks that guy down which did end up in the movie later).They cut some of the scenes from the lightspeed skipping segment. Some of the planets that were cut were Kashyyyk, Naboo, and Kamino.The scene where the tie fighters are chasing them through the iceberg - those corridors were inspired by a video game JJ used to play in the 90s called Rebel Assault 2 (the third level in the game with the tunnels on Endor specifically).Jannah was confirmed to be Lando’s daughter.Rey not only healed Kylo's face scar but she killed Kylo when she healed Ben. Kylo ceased to exist when Rey healed him. My source mentioned that some people assume it was Han Solo who healed him but that isn’t true and that wasn't Han Solo. That was Leia using her own memories as well as Ben's to create a physical manifestation of his own thoughts to nudge him towards what he needed to do. That was her own way of communicating that with him. And it wasn't possible without her dying in the process. She made the ultimate sacrifice for her son and this flew over people's heads with the Disney cut.The late November cut (the last cut JJ approved of) had scenes with Rose and Rey still. JJ wanted to give her a more meaningful arc. Disney felt that that was too risky too. My source mentioned that Chris Terrio said that it was because of the Leia scenes but this is only partially true because she had four other scenes including two with Rey/Daisy that Leia was not in.Finn wanting to tell Rey something was always meant to be force sensitivity. In the 3 hour cut, it’s explicitly stated. There was a moment when Jannah and he were running on top of that star destroyer and Finn needed to unlock or move something and he force-moved it and acted surprised when it happened. This was replaced with a CGI’d BB-8 fixing whatever he needed to fix on there.Babu Frik was nearly cut because some execs at Disney thought he would be the new Jar Jar. They are really surprised that people love him this much. He was JJ's idea and was created in collaboration with some artists and puppeteers. The personality was all JJ.There were a bunch of scenes where Rey and Kylo (separately) went through quiet moments of reflection to deal with what they were going through. On her part, her going through the realization that there's something sinister about her past. Him going through regret and remorse but trying to shut it out. My source said that the Kylo scenes were especially amazing because of Adam's performance and how he managed to portray that inner turmoil. It provided much more context and added deeper meaning to both his battle with Rey and the final redemption arc at the end. It didn't happen so suddenly and it was more structured than what we got.The Kylo/Rey scene where he dies was at least 4 minutes longer with more dialogue. Ben was always supposed to die. Source also added that if he wasn’t, then that might’ve been in an earlier draft which they haven’t read. The first draft they read included Lando (the first few didn’t). The Reylo kiss and Ben’s death was not part of the reshoots. It was a part of the re-editing. Even the cut that JJ thought was coming out earlier this month had a longer version of that scene than what was shown in the theatrical cut.JJ was against the Reylo kiss (or Reylo in general). This was Disney's attempt to please both sides of the fandom.JJ was not happy with where TLJ took the story. The final result is a mix of that story and the story told by Disney and whoever they tried to impress (“certainly not the fans”). JJ is gutted over the final result. Star Wars means a lot to him. He had to sacrifice large chunks of the story in TFA but he was promised more creative control on TROS and instead the leash they had him on was only tightened as time went by. A source said that this is the one franchise and the one piece of his work that he didn't want to mess up and instead it turned into his worst nightmare. When he found out that he was blindsided with the cut they presented, he said "what the fuck??" when Kylo was fighting the Knights of Ren at the end and the Williams music that was used for it was not what he wanted at all. He seemed to think it was out of place.JJ's cut still exists and “will always exist”. We most likely will never see it unless “someone accidentally leaks it.”Ok, so there you have it. If there are questions, I will try to follow up with my source but it’s up to them if they want to share more so I cannot guarantee an answer.Edit: I forgot one thing that the source wanted included, concerning FinnPoe in TROS:The source asked about FinnPoe after seeing Oscar Isaac's comment about how Disney didn't want it to be a thing. This is true. JJ fought to make this happen. This is why Oscar is blaming Disney. It's not just a random throwaway comment. He knows for a fact that it was Disney because these discussions happened. The main cast is insanely close with JJ and are just as pissed, though seemingly more outspoken about it than JJ. During TFA, Disney was hesitant to hire John Boyega because a woman was front and center so they deemed that risky enough so bringing in a male lead who's black made them nervous. JJ fought to make that happen for about nine months before getting approval. The same issue came up when JJ fought to have Finn&Poe in TROS but he lost that battle as he lost many creative battles for this film. Many people, JJ included, came to the realization during this production that the story really is told by shareholders/investors instead of the creatives or anyone at Disney specifically. He tried to make a lot of things happen and was shut down because of this. They had him on a leash and many blame TLJ for the stricter creative approach. via /r/saltierthancrait

#IFTTT #reddit

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topmixtrends · 6 years

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PART I: Diana Arterian Interviews Andrew Wessels

Andrew Wessels’s book traces a day’s walk through Istanbul, placing itself in dialogue with the flâneur figure in W. G. Sebald’s The Rings of Saturn. Yet A Turkish Dictionary also regards the profound impact a nation’s leader can have on language, historical record, and artifacts. It can be chilling to read, considering the tack many current world leaders are taking, the echoes of the past into the present. The collection is a thoughtful investigation of these concerns in conjunction with the self, curiosity, documentation, religiosity. So few poets can hold all these subjects in a single volume with such poise. Andrew and I only began to know one another after meeting randomly and agreeing to exchange our first manuscripts, and, even while reading an early draft, I was thrilled by the engines of the book, its lineage — and where it might lead. It reminded me of Barthes: “Is not the most erotic portion of a body where the garment gapes? […] it is this flash itself which seduces, or rather: the staging of an appearance-as-disappearance.” What the body of A Turkish Dictionary reveals is a complex act of guiding that Wessels accomplishes with apparent ease.

DIANA ARTERIAN: Andrew, I’m so thrilled to have the opportunity to speak with you about A Turkish Dictionary. I saw an earlier iteration of it years ago, and it matured to an even richer text than the one I had originally encountered.

Last year you were living in Turkey at a time when the pendulum, which once swung hard in the direction of Westernization (via Atatürk), was pushed toward extreme nationalism (via Erdoğan), forcing you out of the country. Though books are often written far ahead of publication (and I know ATD was, too), there is a puncture of the present moment in a footnote regarding a suicide bomber attacking a place you wrote about in the book. Erdoğan’s increasingly despotic acts in conjunction with the publication of ATD made you decide to leave in order preserve your safety, which seemed beyond unlikely years before. When you were writing the book did it feel like you were documenting this transition?

ANDREW WESSELS: The book was written before the current upheaval in Turkey (failed coup attempt, terrorist attacks, government’s hard move toward authoritarianism). That moment of the suicide bomber came after the book was finished but during the final editing and production process, so the present was continuously pushing into the book. Istanbul is, if anything, proof of constant change and the impossibility of true stasis. So the current changes are a continuation of that reality. I’ve noticed how some lines in the book mean new things now: “Oh Atatürk, where did they put your words” initially was written to interact with the Turkish language reforms. But now, with Erdoğan’s rise toward dictatorial powers, the curtailing of secular institutions, and the general move away from Atatürk’s Kemalist policy, that line has taken on a different significance. Everything changes, including the meaning of the words in this book.

This feels ironically apt considering the book is, in fact, a sort of dictionary, shining a light on Atatürk’s decision regarding the Turkish language’s speedy metamorphosis.

The Turkish language reform was two primary things. First, Atatürk transitioned the Turkish language from Arabic script to Latin script. Second, as part of creating a Turkish nationalistic identity, the Ottoman Turkish language was purged of any words that had been borrowed over the course of previous centuries. The idea was to create a “pure” Turkish language written in Latin script. So, virtually overnight, a huge chunk of the language suddenly ceased to exist, at least officially. New words had to be created on the spot to replace words that had ceased to exist.

What I was interested in with the opening section “&language” is seeing what happens when words are used in different ways. What happens when this word is placed next to this word? What happens when this word is removed or erased? I wanted to explore that process in real time, and, as I mentioned before, what I’ve learned is that these words have continued to change meaning as the world changes rapidly.

ATD circles predominantly around a kind of awe and terror in the face of such absolute power, and how that power influences historical legacy and knowledge. There is the power of extreme linguistic modification that Atatürk enacted, or Erdoğan demanding the destruction of a recently erected statue meant to signify peace between Turkey and Armenia. In the face of this, you state, “I must accept the rate at which information degrades as time carries it forward, away from its source.” This can be read as flippant considering the circumstances, no?

I thought a lot about power as I wrote this, and specifically about the power to tell the stories of the past. Standing in Sultanahmet Square, one can see the Hagia Sophia, the Blue Mosque, and the remnants of the Hippodrome. It’s a space that has been fought over for thousands of years. To stand there is to stand where countless wars and deaths have occurred and, as the recent suicide bombing shows, continue to occur. I began to be interested in what names remained and what names were erased. Constantine and Justinian and Enrico Dandolo and Fatih and Atatürk and Erdoğan: These are the leaders whose names remain inscribed over and over and over again, and thus the names that are the hardest to erase. But to stand there is to recognize that there were countless people who were beneath these leaders, sent to their deaths. If we look for them, we won’t see their names, but the tracings of their ghosts might still remain.

In ATD you see how those who had power made quick work of altering that space in order to hew a particular narrative that served the vision of what they wanted for Turkey. Thus in your book you document the physical palimpsest of a city that Istanbul is, once being Byzantium and then Constantinople, while also a prodding at what is visible, dormant, or invisible. The images are so evocative, as with the Christian mosaics covered in plaster by the Ottomans, which archeologists are now carefully uncovering. I found your investigation destabilizes trust in the visible and the powerful in the face of curated cultural or historical spaces.

Again, there is really no stasis. The Hagia Sophia (which is actually the third Hagia Sophia built on that site) was a great cathedral. Then, upon first conquering the city, Fatih rode in on his horse and consecrated the space as a mosque, eventually adding minarets to the building, covering the interior designs in plaster, and adjusting the prayer space to face Mecca. After the formation of the Turkish Republic, it became a museum space designed to show this split history. Most recently, Erdoğan’s government has allowed for the call to prayer to emanate from the minarets for the first time (other than very special occasions) in nearly a century. Buildings and cities are nexus points or sites for change, and thus are places for power to exert themselves and to display their exertion.

In the United States, we see that on a grand and totalizing scale with the nearly total destruction of Native American histories and archaeologies at least outside of museum exhibits. A function of power is to control what we see. By not seeing these Native American histories, we are freed from realizing our history of genocide and destruction. We can be absolved of (or at least forget that we need to impose upon ourselves) guilt. We can rationalize our actions.

While I hadn’t considered this topic as one so clearly connected to your book until now, I would be remiss if I didn’t bring up the violence in our own country in response to the removal of statues and markers of our past violence and bloody history, particularly in the South. The poet Robin Coste Lewis recently stated that the Confederate statues need to be put in a museum so we don’t forget. I was so grateful for that insight as the removal of the statues terrified me nearly as much as the white supremacists’ responses to their removal. Pulling these statues down blots out not only the physical markers of the Civil War and slavery here in the United States, but, more important, the desire to commemorate those brutal practices — and the vocal portion of the white American population’s enduring interest in saluting what they represent.

I think this is a great and important connection to make. In The Patria, one of the oldest histories of Constantinople written in approximately the ninth century, there is a famous section on statues that outlines a walking tour of the city. It was designed to guide a tourist through the Greek and Roman sculptures that had been brought to Constantinople by the various rulers, statues that were quite strange and unknowable to the now-Christian populace. Within a few centuries of the initial writing of this text, virtually all of these monuments had been lost or destroyed, and as the city has continued to change, it is impossible to accurately describe on a map what the walking tour itself was.

Keeping problematic monuments up is obviously wrong to hold up violent, oftentimes evil values or histories. Destroying them creates an erasure that can paper over the past and absolve without restitution. But institutionalizing them creates its own problems. A museum can contextualize, but a museum can also contextualize in equally problematic ways depending on who is doing the curating. By taking monuments in and presenting them as critique, these institutions also coalesce greater power themselves. There is also the ethics of acquirement as moving cultural capital from one location to another, such as the Pergamon Altar in Berlin or the Elgin Marbles in London. It is hard to find a good, firm answer because we’re talking about the most inhumane things that humans can possibly do to each other.

The thing I find most strange is the belief that a monument is static in some way. That a statue that we know was erected 85 years ago didn’t exist before then. That we believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that it will remain. That the monument is anything more than an expression of power and belief at a single point in time, and thus a site for us to reevaluate power and belief now. These representations, whether in Istanbul or in the United States, are sites of power struggles and determinations of who gets to say how we see and represent ourselves right now.

Absolutely — and I believe we discussed Thessaloniki, Greece, (Atatürk’s birthplace) months ago when I traveled there and saw physical palimpsests and traces of struggle between Greece, the Roman Empire, and the Ottoman Empire. There was an ancient cathedral in particular with the last standing minaret from the Ottoman period in its courtyard. Above the cathedral’s entryway is Arabic script from when it functioned as a mosque, as well as a more modern painting of Saint George just above that text. In the spirit of ATD, I’ll include the photo I snapped of that doorway.

Having these physical remnants feels so urgent to learning what took place throughout the world (if the remnants survive conflict, governments, and/or erosion). As a traveling outsider, it is an entry point to a more comprehensive understanding of a place. How did you decide to engage with the city of Istanbul this way through your writing? Though you have substantive connections to Turkey, did it ever give you pause to write about the country and its capital, especially concerning the long and checkered history of an Anglo male body moving through an “exotic” space and attempting to document it?

This has been a deep concern of mine and a line of interrogation as I wrote the book, and as I traveled in and lived in Istanbul and Turkey over the years. The short and personal answer is that this book is, in large part, about my faith and conversion. I’m a straight, white man, and I am also a Muslim man, and at least for me writing this book was part of my coming into my faith. Istanbul is where and how that happened. Additionally, writing this book was about me building a dual-cultural life with my partner Zeliha, who is Turkish. It is a space that is not my home but that has become my home.

The history of Istanbul at least in the Western imaginary is primarily seen through the lens of Western travelers. For a variety of reasons, very few Ottoman-era writers are translated, and while there have been more modern Turkish writers translated, they still are largely ignored outside of a certain subset of readers. So I sought to engage these histories and these elisions and the ongoing transformation of the city alongside my own personal transformations. I wrote a little bit more about this larger question for LARB in response to Suzy Hansen’s recent book on Turkey and American imperialism.

One concept you’ve brought up a couple of times that I haven’t engaged with yet directly is the idea of the palimpsest. The city is always recognizable as itself and yet is always changing. As I converted, my body felt similarly. Some physical aspect (discounting the fact that our cells themselves are constantly regenerating us anew) stayed the same, while something else — my perspective, my belief system — was revealed to me as similarly fluid and negotiable. I was simultaneously the same and different. And as I explored this in my walk and in compiling the final book, this palimpsest arose again and again, in the word, in the image, in history, in faith itself.

Part II. Andrew Wessels Interviews Diana Arterian

The most direct thing I can say about Diana Arterian’s writing is that the more time I spend with her work, the more engaged, challenged, and enlightened I am by it. Playing Monster :: Seiche is a blistering and important work of poetry, a book whose impact far exceeds the boundaries of a typical debut collection. As I write this introduction and return again to this book, I find myself unable to stop myself from reading it again in full. So often, we talk of how much we like and enjoy a book. Arterian’s work demands that weightier conversation as each page investigates the fallout of our personal histories and traumas, the possibilities and boundaries of confession, and the ways that we can create, heal, and recreate ourselves through writing and reading.

ANDREW WESSELS: I read Playing Monster :: Seiche first in manuscript form, and when you see a book designed and published, something happens to it. I think this overall design changes the book in really wonderful ways.

DIANA ARTERIAN: Indeed the work, once designed and printed, is a totally different animal. I have to give credit where it is due, and you’ve given me the opportunity: Joseph Kaplan designed the book, making it totally gorgeous and modern while simultaneously giving it the necessary markers to relay a complicated form. It moves between two (or, really, three) different threads, and I had a lot of anxiety leading up to Joseph’s work on how exactly this would manifest itself.

It really is gorgeous, and the design helps a reader navigate the various threads and complexities naturally. I want to start our conversation talking about the subtitle of your collection: Seiche. Would you explain what a “seiche” is and how that concept relates to your collection?

Your question points to the complicated nature of the form of this book, actually — “Seiche” is a second title, rather than a subtitle (initially these were two books with those two titles). “Seiche” is a standing wave that moves across a body of water without ever breaking. This doesn’t necessarily happen on its surface, but also can occur in its depths. Oftentimes a seiche is precipitated by a traumatic event, such as an earthquake.

As I read, I couldn’t help but apply the concept of the seiche to everything, from the overarching narrative threads weaving through the book to the interplay between words. I’d like to investigate some of these a bit deeper, if you don’t mind. First, can you talk about how the seiche relates to some of the main narratives: the binary of the father and mother, the relationship between the speaker and her family/history, the saga of the mother?

I gravitated toward the seiche image predominantly because it so perfectly encapsulates a feeling of dread. Or an image of simultaneous stasis and movement. In the “Playing Monster” pieces, you’re seeing the impact of an abusive sociopath on a family from the perspective of his child (myself). This damage is rarely enacted through instances of rupture, but rather through the cultivation of extreme psychological terror between those moments.

In the narrative ascribed to the “Seiche” thread, my mother is years beyond extracting her children and herself from that life, yet finding herself terrorized by several people, predominantly a stalker. I also included the abuse sustained by the woman who helped care for us as children — the prevalence of danger to us, her, and so many other (often) women and children, felt important.

This book is acting simultaneously as a witnessing of these events and as a confessional. Your collection intersects with various approaches to the confessional that make me think of how Alice Notley incorporates the real, the remembered, the abstracted, the surrealed, the felt, the sensed, the predicted, and the propheted, all within the confessional. Can you talk more about how you’ve approached the confessional?

When I started writing “Playing Monster,” which came before the “Seiche” poems, I wasn’t really thinking all that much about what I was doing. It was during the final year of my MFA and I needed to write a collection for my thesis — I wasn’t thinking about how these poems were possible in large part to many poets who laid the groundwork for exposure of the personal on the page and the feeling that nothing is sacred. This was a thoroughly naïve act in many ways, not simply for its lack of regard for literary history. I became aware of this naïveté through the emotional responses to the completed thesis from those close to me, which gave me serious pause. I had many friends write me and provide a list of page numbers that caused them to break down into tears. In addition, my mother, with my permission, began sending the manuscript to friends. These friends would often write back with similar reactions (which she then forwarded back to me). I didn’t much know what to make of this strange circuit of sadness, and it provoked a deep anxiety regarding the production of such material in the world that often seems defined by suffering. It felt, for the most part, like a spreading of pain or an attempt at emptying my own pain into the reader, which was not my intention. After some years of hand-wringing I decided it felt important to publish predominantly because the stability of the home is often a false facade — the home of the educated, white, middle-class family, in particular.

I’m really interested in how you see the manuscript. It seems like you still see the dividing lines between “Playing Monster” and “Seiche.” As a reader, the collection feels like such a complete whole. I couldn’t begin to parse out what would be in one versus in the other. I want to look at the untitled poem on pages 64–65, which presents an “I” speaking that isn’t you, and then there’s the story of a woman and her mental illness, life, and death in two different versions. How do these doublings, these binaries, these two separate manuscripts, both break apart and fuse?

Well, you’ve caught me in my being slow to accept these books as one. My continued discussion of them as two has mostly to do with the fact that they were two books for longer than they have been a single volume, so I’m excited for its lifetime as a unified entity as it always should have been! They are indeed one story, as so much of life is — particularly the lives of those who survive abuse, which, more often than not, include the resurfacing of that reality again and again despite one’s best efforts (a kind of terrible subconscious self-sabotage frequently experienced by survivors). In addition, so much of adult life can feel like a recognition of echoes of your past.

What I hope is formally compelling in Playing Monster :: Seiche is that it illustrates moments of clear intersection between past and present while simultaneously honoring the depth and difference of each reality. Including my mother’s voice in a poem (and other voices in other pieces) felt important for this reason. I’m not the only player in this series of events. So maybe the book feels less like a binary than a diptych, to me.

Forgive me, but I’m in the middle of watching the new season of Twin Peaks, so I’m thinking a lot about Americana and how America is both filled with highly unique locations due to its geography as well as this uniform Americanness that blankets the country. How did you see location and place while writing this, and how did you let it embody and inform your poetry?

In terms of location, the events in the book take place in central Arizona (“Playing Monster”) and upstate New York (“Seiche”). These two regions felt and feel to be, in many ways, polar opposites from one another. Playing Monster :: Seiche has a “uniform Americanness” not so much due to the physical landscapes within the book but rather because abuse has happened and is happening everywhere in this country. The events in the “Playing Monster” poems took place at a time when that fact was receiving more and more attention — divorce proceedings began to include information regarding abusive spouses and parents in the 1990s. Prior to that point it was considered a private affair of the family or — particularly in the height of heteronormative 20th-century America — a father’s appropriate means of running his household. This is not to say that abuse is an American phenomenon (in the least), but rather the “Playing Monster” poems are an attempt to give insight into the abusive American household that is domestic, middle class, very educated, and white when it is otherwise often an experience ascribed to the foreign, poor or working class, less educated, and/or families of color.

Beyond this, to include the “Seiche” thread in this response, the overarching aim of the book is an attempt to document the ubiquitousness yet simultaneous invisibility of the patriarchal oppressions in the United States, and the many forms in which those oppressions manifest themselves.

One thing I’ve noticed as my book comes out is that there is a divergence or at least a distance between my own purpose for writing the book and a reader’s purpose for reading the book. I think the personal nature of poetry especially highlights this difference. How do you see this distance between your purpose and a reader’s purpose, and how do you think that might add to the ultimate impact of your collection?

Considering a “reader’s purpose” is a tough charge — especially a reader of poetry. It is often a moving target (to be moved? to learn something? to complete a reading assignment?). I suppose my hope is that my readers do learn something — and that something is beyond merely the fact that patriarchy is a drag (to put it lightly). I’m not entirely sure what I hope that takeaway is, or that it is easy to label. Overall, my deepest hope is that my work does not simply upset people.

My mother read a galley of the book and her takeaway was that everyone can and often does function as a monster to one person or another. That slippery shifting of victim to perpetrator and vice versa is one most of us have witnessed or experienced. While that was not my impulse, I think she’s right.

In addition to this book, you’ve previously published two chapbooks, and have a second manuscript in a final draft state. How do you see Playing Monster :: Seiche interacting with these other works, and how does it undergird, add to, and expand upon the work you do and want to do as a writer?

M. NourbeSe Philip writes, “As with most writers, an issue chooses you.” The issue that chooses me again and again is the role of the witness in oppressive environments. Often I find myself pulled in a direction only to recognize later that what provoked me to write Playing Monster :: Seiche also drew me to translate the late Afghan poet Nadia Anjuman, write poems on an ancient Roman Empress, and pen hybrid nonfiction about my romantic relationship with a Pakistani-American man while we watch Islamophobia reach the point of fever pitch. So who the witness is and what they are witnessing may change, but it is always present in my work.

Often witnessing can feel like the final means of exacting agency when a person, group, or system has thoroughly stripped it from you. You become a recorder, anxiously waiting for the opportunity to recall what you have endured before someone who can enact justice (at best) or recognition (at least). I felt like so much of my childhood was defined by what I was seeing and watching for (which are ultimately different endeavors). This is why I include a poem early on in the book in which my father told me to look at a deer and “remember for the rest of [my] life.” I followed his instructions, but with a more damning and personal focus than he intended, and an extended interest in “remembering” other horrors, both personal and public.

Diana Arterian is the author of the poetry collection Playing Monster :: Seiche (1913 Press), the chapbooks With Lightness & Darkness and Other Brief Pieces (Essay Press) and Death Centos (Ugly Duckling Presse), and co-editor of Among Margins: Critical & Lyrical Writing on Aesthetics (Ricochet).

Andrew Wessels is a poet and translator who currently lives in Los Angeles. He has lived in Istanbul, Turkey, where he taught writing at Koç University. His first book of poems, A Turkish Dictionary, was published by 1913 Press in 2017, and Semi Circle, a chapbook of translations of Nurduran Duman’s poems, is available from Goodmorning Menagerie.

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